Singularity
by Armored System
Summary: The trials and tribulations of Hellsing and all it entails, as those in and around it develop and struggle to hold back the creatures of the night, starts with a future scene, then shifts to Post Incog. AxC
1. Order: Substance

Substance  
By Type Thirty-Five  
  
Disclaimer: All characters, trademarks, etc, are properties of their respective owners, who are not me. No profit was made from this.  
  
Note: Takes place 10 years after the Events in the Anime Hellsing, and serves as a prolouge to the following chapters.  
  
A heavy sigh rolled sluggishly past fanged lips, the breath emerging cold before mixing with the mild autumn air and being subsumed into the environment around it. Breathing was no more than a habit, one picked up over nearly two decades of life, and one that had stuck with her for the past ten years despite her current state of existence. It wasn't something that she had to do, wasn't something that was beneficial to her. She did it anyway.  
  
_'Much' _she reflected _'as I do this now.'_  
  
Pulling a broad brimmed, dark blue hat down to shield her face from the last rays of the sun, Ceras Victoria stepped into the approaching twilight. Combat boots clicked lightly over the cobblestones as she walked towards her target, an unassuming brownstone two story. A gentle breeze ruffled her hat and matching outfit, which was comprised of a loose fitting pair of cargo pants with a black, tight, long sleeved t-shirt and matching webbing. A blue black stormcoat fluttered behind her, front open, as she walked.  
  
Her D-11 outfit had come off almost 7 years ago, torched and ruined in a running gun battle in the subways. She imagined, somewhere, that some conductors or officers were still sure that they had seen an enraged, red eyed female, clothes shot to shreds, pull the shadows to her before lancing a hand through a crazed freak even as a cacophony of gunfire from her compatriots brought down the remaining ghouls. In later musings, she figured she must have presented a rather . . . terrifying sight, blood red eyes flashing as indiscriminate black cloths fluttered around her.  
  
Alucard had shown her how exactly to manipulate those shadows later the same day, and she hadn't bothered to pick a new one since, and because she could regenerate it when it was damaged, there was no real reason to, anyway. Besides, she would never get rid of the jacket. It was his gift to her on that day of growth. It had been red once, but her own preference willed the creation of the elder vampire to a shade of blue, months after she first donned it. He had laughed when she did it, saying that he was wondering how long it would take her to realize that the colors she favored clashed with the crimson of his own garb.  
  
She had pointed out that she kept the style the same. His cut, his folds, even his size, though it was a tad big. He had given her a toothy grin, before fading away. In hindsight, she realized that that had been the start, when he started to . . . change.  
  
Making her way up the half story of steps to the front double doors of the condominium, she knocked politely, and waited. A few seconds later, the heavy wooden panel opened inward, and red met red, albeit briefly. The door was flung shut with far more violence than it had been opened.  
  
_'Good. They want to do it the hard way.'_ Ceras grinned inwardly, before raising a booted foot and kicking.  
  
The door flew inwards, catching up with the retreating freak and slamming him to the ground. Other vampires rushed towards her, reaching to pockets or jackets to grab a weapon.  
  
"IN THE NAME OF GOD . . ."  
  
Reaching into the folds of her jacket as she spoke, Ceras pulled out her own weapon.  
  
It was, as far as her usual weapons went, rather small. A matte black affair with edges highlighted in chrome, it was only slightly larger than the Jackal and much the same shape. Except instead of a clip in the hilt, it was a revolver. The overly large muzzle bore, however, as well as the fact that it had only three, fist sized chambers arranged in a triangular magazine indicated that it was far from a normal weapon.  
  
With a deafening boom, the Wolverine spoke, the single round traveling halfway down the hall, boring a head sized hole through the chests of two freaks before exploding in a spray of blessed silver shrapnel. A normal human would have had their hand ripped off from the recoil of such a weapon. She didn't even twitch, her aim completely unshaken.  
  
Part of that, she had to admit, was due to the craftsmanship that went into the tool. Alucard had made it especially clear to Walter, perhaps frighteningly so, that he had wanted his gift to be perfect. So it was; the balance on center, the trigger pull adjusted for a vampire's strength, the grip and frame directing the recoil into the shooter's arm. Forget balanced for a vampire; it was a tool only a median could use. Any human would have had their arm ripped off if they even managed to pull the trigger.  
  
Still, despite its impressive design, she had chuckled when he gave it to her. A gun is hardly what one would normally consider a gift of affection. She hugged him when she realized what exactly it was. It was just so . . . Alucard.  
  
"IMPURE SOULS OF THE LIVING DEAD . . . "  
  
She stalked down the corridor, Wolverine out and in front of her, voice letting any freak know exactly who they faced, just in case her first attack hadn't let them know.  
  
Spinning around a corner, she squeezed the trigger, sending another High Explosive round into what she assumed was the kitchen, pulverizing another two freaks.  
  
Stalking up the stairs, she reached her free hand into another fold, pulling out a matching black handgun, figuring the upstairs, if it were anything like her childhood home, would be much more confining, hindering the effectiveness of the larger bore weapon.  
  
A freak rounded a corner as she reached the top of the stairs, an AK-47 barking from the hip, peppering the walls with rounds.  
  
The Copperhead was yet another gift, though not from Alucard. Rather, his master had presented it to her. Integra Wingates Hellsing had order the duplicate of the Jackal crafted and presented it to her sub-ordinate, saying she should feel free to use it on any troublemaker as she saw fit. Particularly red garbed ones that had a habit of poking their heads through walls at inopportune times. In fact, Integra had practically demanded it, saying it was the younger woman's duty now that she was 'taking charge' of the situation with the fanged horror.  
  
"SHALL BE BANISHED UNTO ETERNAL DAMNATION!"  
  
The snake hissed, spitting a .354 round straight into the freaks arm, blowing it, and a good part of his torso into a fine red mist. As she stepped over the body, she realized idly that this one was human, as there was still a body to step over rather than a pile of ash. She altered mid stride to grind his face under her boot. Collaborators made her sick.  
  
Flaring her senses, Ceras felt for the mental presence of another. One left, waiting, perhaps thinking himself cleverly hidden. He was further down the hall, hiding at the opening to an attic crawlspace, no doubt waiting to drop down on her as she proceeded beneath.  
  
Her fanged mouth twisted into a smile.  
  
"AMEN!"  
  
Ceras' voice boomed out the last word of the Hellsing Pact, raising the Wolverine and pointing it towards where she felt the freak to be, a round screaming towards his hiding spot.  
  
The ceiling caved in as the round detonated, dropping the freak to the floor in a mess of plaster and particle board. Not quite down for the count, the freak raised his own weapon, a glock or some knock off, and fired.  
  
Instinctively, Ceras raised her hand, the bullet pinging off the slide of the Copperhead.  
Cursing, she holstered her weapons, one now suffering from a bent slide, the other empty.  
  
The freak continued to fire, emptying another 6 rounds into her before Ceras reached him, though the magazine was clicking empty when she was still a step away. Though the silver slugs burned, she wasn't bothered by them overmuch; no Hellsing Vampire would be taken down so easily. Idly, she noted that the clip should have contained at least another 6 rounds, and wondered what had happened to them. And for that matter, why this freak was even packing silver.  
  
Grabbing the freak, who was staring wide eyed at the vampire who had just taken a 6 silver rounds at point blank range, she knocked the gun out of his hand and slammed a fist into his face, dazing her assailant.  
  
"Punk." She spat, hoisting him over her head. "That handgun was a wedding gift."  
  
Before he could reply, she slammed his head up into the ceiling, gloved hand staining red, even as the runes embroidered into its surface glowed crimson and the artificial vampire faded to ash.  
  
Sighing and shaking ash out of her hair, her hat having been shot off by the human with the AK, she reached into an outer pocket and pulled out a small, black flip phone. Punching a button she brought it up to her ear.  
  
"Mission Completed, Sir Hellsing."  
  
A pause.  
  
"Yeah, one collaborator. Sickens me."  
  
The other woman continues to speak, and the operatives face turns into a good natured grin.  
  
"You tell that fang faced nuisance that I don't care HOW difficult she is to manage. If I can do it, he better damn well learn. All powerful ancient vampire my rear . . . if he wants to keep on existing, he better have our daughter in bed and asleep by the time I get back." She replied, unable to keep the mirth out of her voice.  
  
At the other end of the line, Integra chuckled at her subordinates reply, before ending the transmission and glancing up at the Hellsing Hall's other resident undead, one of whom was currently tugging on the black strands of hair of the one that held her, and drooling slightly onto the red collar of the same.  
  
"You heard her, Alucard. What are you waiting for?" she smirked. It was fun causing HIM problems for once.  
  
The vampire in question just heaved a long suffering sigh, one of the traits he, if he thought about it would realize he had picked up from his wife, before shaking his head.  
  
"You females. Always against me." He spoke, a faint grin crossing his face, before he looked down into the cooing red eyes of his daughter, who at the moment was doing her best to shovel as much of his hair into her mouth as possible. His grin grew larger. "Even the little ones, it seems."  
  
"You always did have a way with us, Alucard. Now get going, that's an order."  
  
The nosferatu grinned again, sketching a slight bow, before disappearing, leaving Integra to smile silently.  
  
"About time you know what it feels like to have to keep track of a troublesome child." She muttered, to no one in particular, before resuming her paperwork. It was times like this that made her wonder just how it had all turned out this way, running so . . . well, relativly smoothly. To think, it all stemmed from her getting thrown into the Tower of London . . .  
  
Author's Notes -  
Well, I hope you all enjoyed the first Chapter. The next chapter actually takes place right after the ending of the Hellsing anime; in a way, your seeing what would normally be the last chapter first. Go figure. This was originally a one shot, but people wanted to see more, so . . . anyway, reviews are appreciated. 


	2. Order: Responsibility

Orders: Responsibility  
By Type 35  
  
Disclaimer: All characters and such are property of their respective owners, and therefore are not mine. No profit was made from this.  
  
Note: Takes place 10 years before the incidents in the first chapter, and month of the battle with Incognito. Author's Notes and Review Responses at bottom. Further Bulletins as Events Warrant.  
  
" . . . here at the scene, where police have cordoned off a good portion of the London docks. Apparently, the terrorists have taken a number of hostages, and have snipers on the top of the building. It is currently a stand off situation, and . . . hey, who are you?! What do you think you're doing!? You can't do that, we have a free press! Hey, someone stop her before she . . ."  
  
Any viewer at home would have seen the on-location newscaster switch from calm and collected to a frenzy of rage shortly before his cameraman swung to face the person said tweed suited man was yelling at and brandishing his microphone towards. The camera unsteadily captured the image of a blond haired D-11 agent, cap pulled down over her forehead, her features obscured by the backlight effect produced by the flood lamps the police had brought in. It was only a brief image though, as a second later a white gloved hand extended to block out the lens, and cracks spiraled out on hundreds of TV sets as the focusing crystals on the camera shattered. A second later the signal turned to static.  
  
Which was, in any event, just as well since the newscaster had stopped broadcasting at that point anyway. His jaw was to busy gaping wide as he watched the policewoman crush the barrel of his video camera within her small hand.  
  
"Sorry about that . . . you're camera, I mean. The home audience really shouldn't have to watch this kind of violence, you know." The blond spoke cheerfully, before raising her head and smiling at the two stunned newscasters.  
  
The cameraman just nodded dumbly, the spokesman still gaping too wide to answer. Satisfied that the intrepid members of the reporting public wouldn't get a chance to broadcast what was going to happen next, Ceras Victoria walked away from the two and disappeared into the milling crowd of police officers and D-11 agents. Hopefully, none of them would notice her uniform sported a Hellsing badge.  
  
_'Well' _she thought to herself as she ducked under a cordon and made her way to the front of the blockade and stopped in front of a hastily erected series of sandbags and steel plate. Early on the responding police had realized the terrorist had at least a few good shots with them. _'Here comes the hard part.'_  
  
The vampire inhaled deeply, extending her senses and taking in all the smells, sounds and tastes of the London night. The salty, almost sweet sea air mixed with the tangy scent of diesel, the cool of the mid-night, the hustle of her companion officers and even the far off clanging of the harbor buoys as the floated and bobbed in the dark waters. Releasing the breath, she clenched her jaw shut, and acted.  
  
Vaulting over the make-shift barrier in an explosion of raw muscle, she hit the pavement running, making a mad dash for the loading docks. 200 meters. Bullets pinged all around her ripping up chunks of pavement in a hail of automatic fire as the ghoul 'terrorists' began sending round after round in her general direction from their positions on the fortified roof of the darkened dock house. 100 meters. A split second later, she heard gunfire from behind her, as the police opened up, targeting the muzzle flashes of the building dwellers. Not that it would do her any good. They weren't using silver.  
  
50 Meters. She knew the men in uniform had absolutely no idea what was going on. They would offer no support, save the return fire they had just begun. Despite setting a track record for the 200 meter dash, she knew she wasn't as fast as him. Even though she had just vaulted a wall to cross a 600 foot kill zone, she wasn't as sure of herself as her.  
  
But as Ceras crashed through the loading door and the freak just behind it, she knew that she was enough. She was the only one that could stop this situation. And so she would.  
  
Tucking and rolling as she crashed on top of the freak, she scrambled to her feet, clumsily yanking a Desert Eagle from her waist holster and leveling it at the dazed artificial vampire. She squeezed.  
  
The freek's torso vanished in a spray of blood, the hollow point .300 grain, .357 round impacting somewhere around the left lung, before flattening and tumbling, ripping the body apart. A spray of blood, then ash.  
  
Her enhanced hearing warned her a half second before the bullets would have impacted with her head. Ceras leapt and rolled, coming down hard on the concrete floor as she took cover behind a barrel of some sort. The firing stopped as her attacker realized she was out of range.  
  
"The bitch got Toby! Yaz, go start fading some of those hostages. Told those fucking cops we didn't want any fucking heroes . . . and release some of the zombies, flush this bitch out . . ."  
  
_'Well, this could have gone better . . . '_ Ceras got up into a crouch and surveyed the area.  
  
Though poorly lit, her eyes could piece the scene together as if it were day. The warehouse was huge, a massive fish processing plant if she judged right by the smell. The floor was strewn with crates and barrels, a few forklifts were huddled in one corner. The north wall was another set of loading docks, and against the south wall row upon row of freight containers were stacked like a giant's staircase. She was currently crouched against the east wall of the building, and following the sound of her attackers voice . . .  
  
Catwalks crisscrossed the ceiling, and two figures tread upon them. One, holding some sort of automatic rifle was apparently the idiot that had been shooting at her. The other, similarly armed, was walking towards the southwest corner, towards a lighted two story office. She could almost sense the fear radiating from the building inside a building.  
  
_'The hostages must be in there. Have to do this quickly . . .' _  
  
"HEY POLICE BITCH! NICE TRICK YOU PULLED, PRETTY FAST ON YOUR FEET! SORRY THOUGH, GONNA KILL SOME HOSTAGES, THEN GONNA KILL YOU!" the apparent leader crowed, and punctuated his statement with a healthy burst of gunfire, tearing apart several of the barrels behind which Ceras hid, and dousing her with a pulpy substance.  
  
_'Oh that does it . . . he is dead . . . real dead . . .' _she screwed her jaw tight again and wrinkled her nose at the smell of the rotting fish guts that now graced her clothes, the smell almost overpowering her senses.  
  
Removing her other Eagle from her webbing, she darted out from behind her cover, hauling towards the stacked freight containers. Bullets tore a path behind her as the freek followed her movement, but she didn't slow.  
  
She leapt. First to one container, than the other in some perverted game of leap frog, metal sparking as lead impacted onto the freight cases. Reaching the top of her impromptu stairs she was right next to the catwalk that led to the second story of the office.  
  
And, with another quick leap, she was, coincidentally, right between the door to the office, and the other freek.  
  
She tightened the muscles in both hands, barely feeling the recoil of her pistols, and sent the surprised trash over the guardrail. He was ash before he landed.  
  
The rounds from her other assailant finally hit home, clipping her right arm and sending one of her weapons tumbling to the floor 20 meters below. Still, it wasn't silver. And she wasn't trash like them. It wouldn't stop her. People were counting on her.  
  
Even as her right arm recoiled from the blow, her left raised, sighted, and fired.  
  
The room fell silent.  
  
_'One more obstacle . . .' _  
  
Walking away from the office, Ceras holstered her weapon, and unslung an MP-4 from her back. Flicking off the safety, she grabbed a rung from a dangling ladder, and proceeded to make her way to the roof. A few ghouls to clean up, then . . .  
  
An hour later the Hellsing operative watched the police storm the building from her perch on a nearby roof. They arrived, guns drawn and riot shields up, to find it empty save for the hostages. No bodies. Little blood. And the occasional silver round amidst piles of ash.  
Ceras sighed as she watched them work, leaning against a smoke stack, idly rubbing her left hand over where she had been hit. Already, the skin had healed over.  
  
_'I wish it were that easy to keep this up. But with Integra locked up in the Tower, and . . . Master under confinement in the dungeon . . .'_ she sighed, and stood to leave.  
  
Dropping lightly to the ground, she started towards her flat. Reaching a busy street, she paused to hail a cab, and collapsed into the back seat, mumbling directions to the driver, idly hoping that he wouldn't ask about her bloodstained clothes.  
  
_'Integra would have a fit. A Hellsing operative reduced to taking a taxi too and from the job. But then tomorrow's another day, and I need to get home before sunup. Not a very reassuring thought. Responsibility is far, far overrated.'  
  
_  
Author's Notes:  
I was rather impressed by the people that reviewed. In that light, this prequel is given. You can attribute it to the initial four reviewers that such is the case. Henceforth, the title of this fiction shall change simply to Orders. Each chapter will be given a subtitle, and will be placed in accordance to the timeline in which they occur. I tend to write slowly, so please don't get your hopes up too high as to the pace of the release. Whew. That was a mouthful. On to a few more interesting notes. First, a thank you to all those who reviewed; they are excellent encouragement, and they mean a lot. I will, periodically, do review responses. Maybe. And suggestions or ideas are always welcome. Please keep all comments civil, though. My thanks.  
  
Word Dreamer: Thanks for being the first reviewer, and the comments. Though this chapter was substantially different than the previous one, I hope you enjoyed it.  
  
Maith: Well, little bit faster than weeks. Anyway, Alucard will be a bit more cold in the earlier Orders. But I write at a tectonic pace most of the time, with the occasional burst of activity. Thanks for the review.  
  
Hellsinglover: Alright, more story it is. OOC is always an issue, but I'm just gonna keep on right ahead. Hope it doesn't come out too OOC, though I know I've made Ceras a little more powerful than she is at the end of the anime, she's on par with the Manga version, I think. Thanks for the review.  
  
Dark-Saber: Well, now it's a two shot, at least. Thanks! 


	3. Order: Surrogate

Orders: Surrogate  
By Type 35  
  
Authors Pre Note: Realized I never said what Continuity this followed. Anime, for simplicities sake. Pip Bernadette, though he is a beloved character, will not be playing a role in this story. I am working on a one shot, however, that will be ready relatively soon, in a geologic time scale, in which he will play a prominent role.  
  
-----  
  
Batting the alarm clock against the wall, Ceras silenced the infernal contraption once and for all. Additionally, she also took a good chunk out of the wall, but that is neither here nor there. The point is, don't wake a vampire up before they're damn well ready.  
  
"God dammit . . ." she muttered, blearily rubbing sleep out of her eyes and rising from her bed. She hadn't slept well since she returned to her flat; a bed just no longer seemed right anymore. Uncomfortable. Confining. Perhaps even, strangely enough, claustrophobic.  
  
'Never thought I'd miss my coffin.' Ceras smirked to herself as she stumbled towards her kitchen.  
  
Arriving, she padded across the cold tile floor, not bothering to flick on the lights, or pull back the heavy curtains to allow the moon to shine through. Being a vampire did wonderful things to her utilities bill where light was concerned. Reaching her goal she popped open her fridge and reached inside to select a blood packet, tearing the cover off the feeding tube and collapsing into a nearby chair to drink.  
  
Had anyone been around to observe, they would have noticed all the habits of a well developed and entrenched routine. The casual slouch of the sole occupant of the room, the garbage pail full of . . . well, overflowing with empty blood packets, the apparently at random scattering of large caliber handguns and various ammunition atop the dinning room table . . . it may not have been a _normal_ routine, but it was definitely there.  
  
As the blood pack emptied, Ceras tossed it over her shoulder, not bothering to see if it landed in the trash. Instead, she leaned forward in her seat, and began arranging the various tools of her trade that were scattered across the table. The results of her inventory did nothing to please her.  
  
_'5 clips of Silver Desert Eagle rounds, if I don't hot load. Two boxes of silver 9mm's. MP-4, two Desert Eagles, and my standard issue SIG-pro. Silver tactical blade. And . . .'_ she glanced up at the fridge, then back down to the weapons in front of her. _'Less than a week's worth of blood packs left.'_  
  
Sighing, Ceras pushed away from the table, and reached for the corded phone mounted on the wall, and pulled a sheaf of papers from a nearby counter, and sorted through till she found her target, a personnel file for one Major Stasi. It was time to call in some help.  
  
It had been hard enough to get her small armory to begin with. As soon as Incognito had been banished, MI-6 had descended upon the scene and things locked up tighter than Hellsing Hall's fine silver. Integra, as far as she could tell, had been airlifted to a hospital along with Walter. From there they were both removed to the Tower of London and were under lock and key. Alucard had been at least temporarily resealed on the authority of the Round Table, though at least her Highness hadn't issued the order. Thank heaven for small favors. Or as Ceras had figured, Hell would have been the more appropriate guardian entity in his case.  
  
The remaining soldiers of Hellsing had been disbanded until further notice and the Hall was put under armed guard. She herself had been largely ignored . . . apparently, Integra had listed her as Killed in Action. Which was, she supposed, technically true . . .  
  
It had taken Ceras three hours to successfully break into her former home, a process which required her to 'assist into unconsciousness' five security officers and destroy several thousand pounds worth of surveillance equipment. Even after all her fine work, she still only had enough time to grab the weapons and ammunition she now had, personnel files and contact information from Walter's desk, and as much blood as she could carry before reinforcements from D11 were called in.  
  
Punching in numbers, she brought the receiver up to her ear, and waited as it rang once.  
  
Twice.  
  
Three times.  
  
"Hello?" a voice answered, albeit sleepily. "Who is this?"  
  
"Ceras Victoria." She answered tersely. Stasi was always a by the book type. Up front and direct would undoubtedly be the best approach.  
  
"Sergeant?" The sleepiness abruptly dropped from the voice, instantly alert, a hard edge surfacing amidst the drowsiness. "What's going on?"  
  
She sighed. "Nothing at the moment, but I'm in need of your help. And the rest of the survivors."  
  
Another pause. "The docks. And the park. The subway, too, was that you?"  
  
"Yes," she replied. "Look, I don't want to talk about this over the phone. Who can you get together?"  
  
Stasi sighed on the other end, pausing in thought, before his baritone voice returned to the line. "Pretty much everyone that's left. Bonner, Reuters, Lackmay, Johnson, and the rest of Squad Five."  
  
"We need to meet. Where and when?"  
  
"Give me two hours. Red Eye Pub, down in the south end. I'll represent Squad five, but I'll try to pull the others from whatever they are doing."  
  
Two hours later found all the remaining ex-Hellsing agents gathered in a small, quiet little bar about an hour from Victoria's flat. It was a rather humble affair, and seemed to cater to the near-do-wells of the area. Apparently the main industry of the town was a manufacturing plant of some sort, judging by the grease smeared blue overalls a number of the patrons wore. Still it was clean and well maintained, the floors gleaming, bar and railings showing spit and polish. Overhead, wooden ceiling fans circulated air with a gentle whoosh, though the sound was almost inaudible over the noise of an old, wood paneled TV set that rested behind the bar, towards which the few patrons directed their gaze.  
  
_'Not too surprising a choice of meeting place, all things considered.'_ Ceras noted as she walked towards the far wall where her compatriots were already seated, Stasi sitting at the head of the rectangular table.  
  
She gave her plans one more mental once over as she completed her approach.  
  
"So, Sergeant, what exactly is going on? Is Hellsing being reactivated?" Stasi grinned over his beer, smirking at the vampire.  
  
Upon meeting Gerald Stasi, the first thing one would note about him was that he was Big. Not so much tall, and certainly not fat. But his wide shoulders, and solid frame seemed to say that he was about as movable as sea wall. Things break against it, but seldom does it buckle. The crisply pressed shirt and slacks, along with his crew cut, gave the giant man a sort of military air, as well.  
  
She had heard that on one of his missions, he had actually managed to beat a freak in a bear handed fistfight. Quite an accomplishment, that.  
  
Even more important than his strength, Ceras realized, was what he brought with him. Before being inducted into Hellsing, Stasi was an operative for a mercenary group functioning out of South America and a charismatic one at that. If she could bring him aboard she would have little trouble convincing the rest; Squad Five had been his command, after all, both before and after he joined the Organization.  
  
"Just because Hellsing has been . . . deactivated, doesn't mean the Freeks are going to politely pack up and go home. Something needs to be done." She voiced, sitting down in an empty chair.  
  
One of them, a thin, wry man, leaned forward. "Let's cut to the chase, Victoria. We've all seen you're antics on TV. You want to keep on with Hellsing's mission. But we need pay. No pay, no play." The man finished by knocking back a shot of whatever concoction it was he was drinking.  
  
Ceras snorted. "Lives of the innocent mean nothing to you, huh?"  
  
In Ceras' mind, it was a shame that Reginald Reuters had not died in the engagement with Incognito. From his greasy dirty blond hair to his rumpled outfit, everything about him screamed 'sleazeball', as if issuing a warning to all who would engage him in conversation. He was the kind of man Integra had feared recruiting after the debacle with the Valentino brothers. In one notable incident, the bastard had wired the female agents locker room with video; Ceras imagined that he was still nursing wounds from that little occurrence. But his talents, and his connections, made him invaluable. Hell makes for strange allies.  
  
Reuters shrugged. "Only so far as I can buy my next meal with em. We're mercs, Miss. Stasi might be happy just blowing shit to kingdom come, but I want cash."  
  
Stasi turned to look at the man. "Hell with you, Reuter. Just cuz I have a sense of duty . . ."  
  
Reuters laughed. "You just like to pick fights. Given that, nothing else much matters to you."  
  
"Great appraisal, Dr. Wiseass. In a second, you'll need a real doctor to extract this chair leg from your rectum after I shove it sidewa . . ." Stasi began, starting to rise from his seat.  
  
Ceras coughed, cutting both of them off before it could escalate further. "You're a tribute to your species, Reuters. No, Hellsing isn't being reactivated . . . as Such. I've got a lot of cash saved up from the life insurance that paid out on my original death, as well as my savings, from the sale of some property I owned when I 'died', and my salary from Hellsing. It's enough cash to keep you guys at your old salaries for about 6 months, and provide a fair amount of gear. I don't have the contacts I need to get the weapons and equipment we require, but I know you have people that can get em. The missions are also . . . difficult on my own. I can deal with most of the problems, but the large numbers of ghouls . . . like in the subway. The freak used them to hold me up while he ran. I'll also need you to use your contacts, especially you, Reuters. You've got connections to every lowlife in the greater London area, according to your file. We need weapons, and I need blood."  
  
Reuters nodded, leaning back and kicking his boots onto the table, eyes focused on Ceras. "You pay me, you got yourself a supply sergeant, Miss. Course, I imagine we don't get governmental sanction for all this."  
  
Ceras nodded. "Is that a problem?"  
  
Reuters just grinned.  
  
"And you, Stasi?" Ceras turned to look at the man.  
  
"Well, Hell. Why not? Doin the right thing, even if the government says no. Whadya say guys?"  
  
"Running out of beer money, anyway."  
  
"Yeah yeah, Queen and country and all that Jazz. Can I have an up front on my first paycheck?"  
  
Ceras chuckled.  
  
"Looks like you've got yourself a squad, Sergeant, Sir."  
  
"Seems that way, doesn't it?" she smiled. "Tomorrow gear up and meet me at the old training grounds, MI6 has left em alone."  
  
Standing and spinning on her heel, she moved towards the front.  
  
"Oi, Ceras?" Stasi called out as she pushed the wood paneled door open.  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"In the name of God impure souls. . ." he started.  
  
". . . of the living dead shall be Banished unto Eternal Damnation." She smiled back. "Amen."  
  
As she stepped out into the cool of the night, she felt as if a weight had been lifted from her shoulders, even if she had received several confused stares from the other patrons of the bar. She paused to inhale deeply, cold air filling her dead lungs, a smile playing across her face, before she made her way deeper into the dark.  
  
Even with Hellsing gone, England still had its Guardians of the night.  
  
**Author's Notes:**  
  
Well now. A crew assembled. The stage is set. Next chapter, expect to hear from Integra, Walter, and Alucard, and perhaps even the Hanging Judge. And sorry for the amount of time it took for me to churn this out, but I peck away at a number of different stories at all times. That, and I like my works to be fairly well revised when the go out into the world. For the record, I consider a mid sized chapter every 3 weeks or a long chapter every 6 weeks to be a good pace. Maybe even a fast pace. Sorry again. Reviews probably will help me pick up the pace, so feel free to send em my way.  
  
**Review Response:**  
  
Lady Blackmour: Thanks for the encouragement, it is much appreciated. Particularly the part about London not being a port town; I like my stories to be as accurate as possible when I bother to use real life facts. I used the Port of London website as a reference. Accordingly, it is currently one of the three largest ports in Great Britain, with a capacity of 51 Million Tonnes. But I see how salt might not smell so clear if you were that far upstream; I didn't even realize it was a river based port. I'll revise it next time I go into the chapter. What phrase to use? Wet Air? Damp Air? Go figure. Thanks again, and I hope you'll continue to read and review!  
  
Dark Saber : Thanks, and sorry for the confusion. I may have to move the final chapter off to a one off . . . though I don't really want to.  
  
Otaku-Sarri: Favorites list? Wow . . . thanks a lot. Makes my day to see that I'm on someone's favorites list.  
  
Zachiel: Thanks for taking the time to post such a long review, and to give me the chance to clear up a few things along the lines of how this universe is set. Hellsing doesn't seem to hold fast to any single mythology, so I'm just going to go ahead and pretty much make it up as I go. And since all vampires are dead, they shouldn't be up and about in the first place, so why not a descendent? All this sort of fiction requires one to put reality on hold, so the way I see it, I'm just making you disbelieve a little harder. As for a AxS pairing, it will be a long time in development. I'm not a fan of epiphany romances, so expect gradual character change to hopefully make it a believable ending. I hope you keep reading despite the flaws, and take time to continue to comment as well.  
  
And to anyone else who reviewed and I didn't mention, Thank You.  



	4. Order: Inital

**Order: Initial**  
By Type 35  
  
Disclaimer: I do not own Hellsing or any of its trademarks, which are property of their respective parties. No profit was made from this work, it was strictly for fun.  
  
Cold. Hard. Simplistic. Clean Cut. Words that well described the room, a small chapel like apartment inside a larger complex. But still, there was something refreshing, even comforting in its hard edge, in the high gothic style, in the beauty of the worked, yet unfinished granite and tile floor, in the roughly hewn wooden benches that formed two rows stretching the length of the room, an aisle between them. It limited possibilities, gave reassurance, and put a defined order to the world. There was no doubt to its construction, nor any air of wonder. There was only one path to be traversed. Solid. Unshakable. Real. Imperial.  
  
A single figure stood in quite comptemplation at the head of the room, eyes resting upon a simple, worn banner that hung on the wall. The numerals for 13 were embossed gold on the tattered purple fabric.  
  
The double doors creaked open at the back of the hall, and quite footsteps echoed throughout the empty space.  
  
"Where is he?" the thinker asked, voice at once commanding and yet still conveying a tone of bemusement, or anticipated triumph.  
  
"The Paladin is arriving soon. His last contact was from Estonia, and that was a day ago. He said he would be here as soon as possible. He also wishes to inform you that the issue has been . . . taken care of." The grey haired man replied, adjusting his glasses with two white gloved fingers as he came to rest beside his commander.  
  
"I want them underway as soon as he arrives. Is the taskforce ready?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Who have you assembled?"  
  
"As you know, the head will be the Hanging Judge. The force includes three other members. Novice Christopher 'Bullet Gauge' Eklesia, Novice Joshua 'Sword Dancer' Ethens, and Initiate Lucrecia 'Purgator' Terrik."  
  
"An Initiate?" the thinker spoke, his frown audible.  
  
"She is one of the most promising recruits the Order has had since we took in Christopher. A virtuoso with demolitions."  
  
"Ah yes, I seem to remember. She triggered the collapse of that heretical sect's building, correct?"  
  
"Yes sir." The words hung in the air, as if attached to the warm mist created by the speaker's hot breath amid the cold of the chamber.   
  
Enrico Maxwell smiled. "Good. I have a good feeling, Buffonard. This time, we will reclaim what is rightfully ours. The protestant swine will never know what hit her."  
  
For the first time in almost 50 years, he found the song tiresome. He found the walls confining. He found the darkness . . . quiet.  
  
He really had no idea why. Since his capture at the hand of Van Hellsing so many generations before he had spent a great deal of time on his own, haunting his few rooms in the basement of the manor. The experiments that had strengthened him, the operations he participated in . . . they had really only been brief windows into the outside world. He would be yanked from his cell, turned loose upon the enemy, only to be caged upon its completion. An enraged Bull Elephant lashed and goaded till it stampeded in the wanted direction, only to be put down once the enemy had been crushed. He had never made, nor sought any sort of bond with his masters, nor had he been allowed the time to perhaps form one. He was a tool, and nothing more. That was, until Integra had stumbled upon him, freed him, and made him a permanent fixture of the Hellsing battle line.  
  
But he had never found the isolation to be alone. The concept was something that intrigued him, his ancient mind flitting from one possibility to the next discarding those that failed to suffice and examining those ideas that presented merit.  
  
And after about two months of soul searching (or, searching whatever passed for a soul when your an ancient undead vampire lord), he had finally reached a conclusion that was almost satisfactory.  
  
He had, to his surprise, become accustomed to life, as he so lived it in the world above the Hellsing Dungeons. He had come to look forward to his verbal sparing with Walter, his tormenting of Integra, his . . . well, since he never really trained her, his leading of Ceras. It was something more than just the brutal slaughters he had been invoked for in the past, something that he hadn't felt even prior to his capture.  
  
A sense of purpose, perhaps, a duty, but even more so, an interaction with a unit. A sense of, if not comradeship, at least a mutual understanding borne of respect.  
  
_'And after all,'_ Alucard mused, _'Freeks are fun to slaughter.'_  
  
But he would wait. He had patience. Empires had risen and fallen in his life; it was only a matter of time before the warded doors opened once more. If nothing else, Ceras would still be alive, he knew. Till then . . .  
  
A hundred feet above, the MI6 agents lounging in the billiards room could swear they heard the sounds of an old phonograph, its melancholy tune echoing up from the ether below.  
  
Ceras sighed, head down on the maps, blood red eyes looking even more bloodshot than usual. Dawn was fast approaching, and she still hadn't managed to find any rhyme or reason to the recent freek outbreaks. For all she knew, there was no pattern and everything was completely random. But this little procedure had to be done. And only she, as an Ex-police officer, had any idea how to do it.  
  
_'Even if it is completely worthless.'_ she thought, as she lifted her head from a topographical map of the Greater London area, and tucking a few stray strands of strawberry blond hair behind her ear.  
  
Since Stasi and the rest of the squad had signed up a week ago, there had been only two real incidents of note. The first was simple. A teenage freek, holed up in a run down, two bit bar. When Ceras had started in the front, tearing a path through the ghouls, the freek had bolted out the back. A single bullet from Lackmay's L96A1 ended his flight. The "Arctic Warfare" sniper rifle, a massive weapon originally designed for the Swedish Army, had dispensed silver justice from a cell tower about a block away.  
  
The second wasn't much tougher. Apparently, a freek had gotten involved as an enforcer for some sort of drug deal. It went bad, and he and his gang holed up when the police arrived. Their fortress was a condemned housing block, a poured concrete and rebar type, slated for destruction. It would have been hard to get into; the windows were manned, and the doors and walls would be difficult for even Ceras' vamperic strength to break down. Had the police taken it as they were supposed to, on the numbers and by the book, it would have cost countless lives as the gangers fought back from their fortified positions.  
  
Hellsing agents, however, had never been forced to obey protocol. There didn't have to limit collateral damage. They didn't have to worry that there might be innocents in the building. And Ex-Hellsing operatives worried even less. Bonner, a cheerful brunette formerly of the US Army Core of Engineers used the dynamite and blasting caps Reuters had 'found' to collapse the sewer system beneath the building, and subsequently the building itself. Even a freek would have had no chance of surviving being squashed flat by 15 tons of concrete and steel.  
  
Still, despite the ease of encounters, and the fact that her new unit seemed to be pulling together well, doubts clawed at the young vampire's mind.  
  
Ceras had tried, unsuccessfully, to get Stasi to take control of the group. He had laughed, saying that she was doing a fine job of leading "Ceras' Strikers", and wouldn't think of removing her from her position. When she had frowned, though, he had taken a more serious bent almost immediately.  
  
_"You're worried, aren't you?" he had asked, staring at her from across the table, a coke in his right hand, a half eaten sandwich grasped in his left. "That you'll mess up?"  
  
"Blunt as always. Yes." Was her reply.  
  
Stasi shrugged. "Works most of the time, sir; unlike you immortals, I don't have half a millennia to say I need to take a piss politely. Regardless, but in keeping, here's my blunt answer. Told it to more greenhorns than Hellsing has secrets, I'm sure. When we fight, shit happens, and sometimes we catch more of it than we give, sir. But you do your best, and you remember each death. Each name. And you make sure they didn't die in vain. Because in the end, that's all any of us can do; as a merc, I've lost more men than Hellsing lost in the last battle with Incognito. We aren't ordered to trust you Ceras. We choose to follow you, because we, well, at least most of us, Rueters is probably just in it for the money, but we have faith in you and your abilities. So don't sell yourself short, and don't shoulder all the weight. We're a hierarchy, but we're a team. Sir."  
_  
Following that enlightening speech, Stasi finished the last bite of his sandwich, knocked back the last of his soda, and let out a truly magnificent belch, completely shattering the image he had just created. Apparently, his sense of decorum only partially extended to late night shifts.  
  
His words, however, extended far beyond that pre dawn conversation.  
  
The second problem, while not nearly as important, was perhaps more disturbing to Ceras, and in the grey of pre-dawn over the highlighted and marked maps, came to the fore of her mind.  
  
Going over the incidents of the past couple weeks, she had found herself loathing the freeks. Because they killed the innocent, certainly, but also because they were . . . pathetic, almost pitiful. Gang bangers, terrorists, criminals . . . artificial creations, power mad dreamers, giving no thought to what they did, or the results of their actions. They had no dignity, no sense of purpose, no nothing. They were neither human nor vampire, nor anything in between, just a misplaced entity, a bit of occult, technological slime.  
  
They gained power without effort, skill without understanding. Lord Macaulay, a lawyer turned literati, once noted, "The highest proof of virtue is to possess boundless power without abusing it." It was a note that Ceras found herself wholeheartedly agreeing with. She, like her Master, had power. But it was tempered by knowledge, by will, and would eventually be reigned in by time. It was not an instantaneous process, nor was it one she jumped at. She had never chased power, never reveled in it simply because she could. In D-11, it had been a way to serve, a way to protect. Her Master could crush platoons of armed soldiers flat, or level entire city blocks. He did neither, but not because he couldn't.  
  
"Most powerful is he who has himself in his own power." Spoken by Seneca, two millennia before.  
  
A memory dredged from her mind, a school hood lesson now remembered. Freeks were slaves to their power, to their lusts. She would not be. She would not mistake power for wisdom, or ability for justification. To the Freeks, it was little more than a handout, a charity, a gift one could not possibly comprehend. She was not them. Acting without comprehension or control. It was repulsive. And to make matters worse, there was what they did with said boons. And it sickened her to her very core.  
  
_'This,'_ she reflected, _'must be why Master hates freeks so much, with such passion. While I may be . . . abnormal . . . I am not . . . unnatural'_  
  
Her thoughts were cut short by the faint ringing of an alarm clock. Stasi would be waking up, and that meant it was time for the day shift to take over. Grateful for an excuse to discontinue her rather disturbing mental examination, she shelved her current line of though, though she vowing to return to it later out of necessity. Now was not the time, however. She needed a shower, and then a good long day's rest. Reuter's had managed to acquire a coffin from somewhere, and after Ceras had examined it to make sure it hadn't had a . . . prior . . . occupant . . . she had thanked him graciously.  
  
_'A good day's rest. That's all I need. Freeks need to sleep sometime, too, right?'_ she thought, as she trundled towards her shower, her unconventional bed, and unconsciousness.  
  
The difference between the current incarnation of Hellsing, and the current state of the Freek underground, was that there were enough freeks that they couldn't all be asleep at the same time. This despite the best efforts of the red eyed woman and her fellow combatants.  
  
Even as Ceras Victoria pulled the lid of her coffin shut, inhaled deeply the sent of fresh, plain pine boards, rested her head on her pillow, and closed her eyes, about a hundred miles away a group of Freeks was showing just how awake they were, despite the sun looming on the horizon.  
  
Initially, it had simply been a drug deal gone bad. A buyer tried to rip off a supplier; the cash had been counterfeited, and it wasn't even that good of a job. A common enough occurrence, just proving that the 'Honor amongst thieves' ideal was about as true as the 'vampires don't exist' fairytale. Regardless, it isn't smart to try and rip off a supplier. They tend to have ties to a larger criminal underworld. This supplier, however, had contacts to a different sort of underworld entirely.  
  
To his credit, the buyer, who was set to pick up several kilos of the stuff, wasn't stoned when he tried his little stunt. He had brought back up. A half dozen gangers, each carrying semi auto handguns of various makes and models, a few having been converted to full auto weapons. You could tell by the ridiculously extended magazines, stretching far out of the grip. Though they looked ridiculous, they served there purpose.  
  
Or would have. When the fakes were discovered, the gangers opened up. 9mm rounds filled the air as the harsh crack of gunfire rattled off corrugated tin walls, the musty scent of the warehouse enriched by the smell of gunpowder and smoke. The majority of the shots managed to find their targets, smashing into the two bodyguards of the supplier, a white suited, clean cut man, who had stepped behind his two companions and was completely shielded from the initial volley.  
  
Neither of the bodyguards went down, despite being filled full of holes. No bullets ever creased the white garbed suppliers outfit. No second volley ever came. Just the cries of the doomed as their flesh was ripped from their bodies, and the snapping of bone.  
  
The man in white pulled out a cell phone, and hit a button. Speed dialed, the call went through.  
  
"Yeah. We'll need to find a new dealer for this area. Vasquez decided it would be fun to try and rip us off." The voice was casual, controlled, even as blood spurted from cooling bodies just a few feet away.  
  
"And the enhanced, they work great. Tell our contact we want more of those chips."  
  
The phone clicked shut.  
  
When the police arrived, all they found were bloody puddles, fake money, and a message written on the ground in red.  
  
"WE ARE THE UNDERWORLD."  
  
And the worst thing about it, was that the police expected to find the writings. The same scrawl had been found at four other similar disturbances.  
  
Integra Wingates Hellsing was many things. Patient was not one of them, particularly when she was out of the loop. And it was hard to get more out of the loop than being stuck in the Tower of London. Deprived of the stress her job normally provided, the Hellsing head was practically going stir crazy. Her ensemble, normally spotless, was even tighter than a Marine reporting for a uniform expectation. Her normal outfit was creased and crisp, not a spot of lint or a wrinkle to be seen. Her hands alternated between fiddling with her cufflinks, a habit she had picked up since her imprisonment, and her longer running (and less healthy) habit of reaching into her coat pocket in hopes of finding a Cigarillo. Unfortunately for her the Tower forbid smoking, and she kept coming up empty.  
  
All in all, it led to a woman who was on the verge of a breakdown. Her face was drawn, muscles taunt, and eyes sunken and almost hollow. Her condition had been noted by her gaolers, which is exactly why the current one on one conference was being held. Integra Wingates Hellsing was of no use to the British Empire as twitching, hair triggered mess.  
  
". . . so only another week or so, and you and Hellsing will be reinstated."  
  
Integra nodded, idly stirring her coffee and not bothering to look up. Despite being imprisoned, her conditions were far from Spartan. She had seen four star hotels with less pomp and in part, it made her imprisonment even worse. While she was forcibly . . . pampered . . . at the political prison, people were dying. Undead were roaming free. Hellsing was being disgraced. And it showed in her voice, an icy, hard edge to her words, that seemed to lower the temperature of the room, despite the cheeriness of the roaring fire. Her gaunt features only added to the impression of barely contained, desperate energy.  
  
Still, if she couldn't be out there doing her duty, then Integra figured she might as well be informed so when she was released, she could make up for lost time.  
  
"How is London holding up?" she asked, head rising up to fix her informer with a hard stare.  
  
Her conversation partner was the secretary consul of the Round Table, a gray suited, bespectacled man. Middle aged, and soft spoken in a gruff sort of way, she idly reflected that he bore a passing resemblance to Walter.  
  
_'Minus a pony tail. And the ability to kill dozens with the flick of a wrist.'_ she mentally added.  
  
"Not as bad as you might thing, Lady Hellsing."  
  
Integra raised an eyebrow; she had been expecting the underworld to have a ball with Hellsing put away. She had not dared to hope that they would courteously wait for Hellsing to be reinstated.  
  
She voiced her thoughts, a slight crack of curiosity in its coldness. "Have the Freaks gone into hiding?"  
  
The man shook his head. "Quite the opposite, I'm afraid. But they don't seem to be as . . . free as they used to be. The freeks seem to be more controlled, less bent on wonton destruction. Most of the time we've seen them involved as enforcers for a gang or in some similar capacity, and typically only raise hell on other scum. And . . ." he paused, and pulled a manila folder out of his attaché case, and slid it across the white linen table cloth, deftly dodging the silver service. "You've trained your agents remarkably well."  
  
Integra opened the folder and was confronted with a blurry, pixilated image. A still taken from a security camera, the quality made worse by the countless recycling of the tape. Still, the strawberry blond hair was rather distinctive, even if nothing else could really be identified.  
  
To say she was shocked would have been an understatement. Integra new that Ceras had been alive, but hadn't given much thought to what the younger vampire would do in her absence. Idly, in the back of her head, she knew Ceras would have to get blood somehow, and would probably hole up until she was released, but she hadn't paid the thoughts any attention, focusing instead on her own plight. She never thought the hesitant Sergeant would operate in her absence. She would have gone so far as to say the young lady would have been incapable of such an action.  
  
"She seems to be the leader of whatever soldiers you have left." The man continued, not noticing her shocked look. "We've caught glimpses of her at 10 separate incidents, but this is the only picture we've really managed to get of her. About two weeks ago, she dressed up as a D-11 agent and managed to get past a police blockade to a charge a holed up freek. While she was running in the front door, he ran out the back. Silver tipped sniper fire made sure he didn't get far, so you've got at least a few more men working. Any idea which agent this is?"  
  
Integra smiled, the weight lifting ever so slightly from her shoulders. Hellsing wasn't quite as dead as she thought it had been.  
  
"One of my best."  
  
**Author's notes:**  
  
Well, Singularity should be the last title change. Impermanence was the original, but that changed when I added a second chapter, as the working title became the chapter title. Orders changed when I realized there was another fic of the same name. Sorry about all that.  
  
Next Chapter the Iscariot steps onto the London scene, so be ready for some rather serious carnage, one way or another. I promise, next chapter is where the real plot, and not just the development, begins. Oh. And Action. Expect a lot of blade wielding, gun toting, bone breaking action. Partly because I want to do a more action oriented chapter after all this development, and partially just because I like action . Till next time. And before I forget, why not check out an excellent fic known as The Afterlife Chronicles? It's a AxS continuing story, which starts off fairly light hearted and makes its way to a darker tone fairly quick.  
  
**Type 35 Recommends: **  
Meruru's The Afterlife Chronicles. A nice long piece about the development of Hellsing post Incognito. AxS, it starts off pretty light hearted but gets dark reasonably quickly. Nice humor, too. Hasn't been updated in awhile, but maybe if enough people review . . .  
  
**Reviewer Response:**  
  
Eternal Sorrow: You flatter me. Especially since I'm a fan of your story; always nice to get a review from someone you respect. Only hope I can get as many people interested in this piece as you've got fans for yours . Thank you, and I hope you continue to enjoy and review.  
  
Senpai-san: A belated thanks for the review. I thought it was from the first chapter post. Sorry! Hope the continuing story meets with your approval.  
  
Lady Blackmour: Well, thanks again for a long, constructive review! I need more of those (though more reviews in general are always nice). I agree with you, Ceras seems to me to be holding back. The trouble I'm having is getting her to use more power without triggering a sort of Deus Ex Machina esq. situation. That, and getting her to deal with the fact that she's a vampire. I will say that by the Order after next, she will hopefully have completely come to terms with that bit of mental anguish; I think I did part of that development in this chapter, never the less.  
  
Oh, and my overall goal for this fic is to break 50 reviews by chapter 10. here's hoping, yo. Preferably constructive reviews, but I'll take what I can get. 


	5. Order: Conflict

**Singularity**

** Order: Conflict**

"Eat lead, shithead!" Trooper Revlin barked, twin Sig pistols firing from the hip as he dove for cover behind the battered, bullet ridden corpse of a Wooly Mammoth. He he the hard packed earth hard, rolling twice, leaves and detritus sticking to the dark green of his cargo pants and jacket. The smell of gunpowder and dusty age mixed together in the climate controlled cool, the darkness of the chamber broken only by recessed lighting and muzzle flash.

"The tainted shall be Purged by the wrath of the righteous, Protestant dogs!" A woman's voice rang back, punctuated by several more rounds of gunfire, tossing up tufts of hair and skin from the creature the ex-Hellsing agent was taking cover behind, each new bullet hole marked by a plume of sawdust.as the stuffing was driven out of the massive body.

Were said lady not bent for leather on the destruction and death of both himself and his immediate co-workers, Revlin might well have said she was pretty. Close cropped brown hair, nicely proportioned, and just the right height. Her outfit, a black suit covered by a brown synthetic storm coat provided the perfect compliment to clear, blue eyes. All in all, a real catch.

"Lady, I'm gonna come over there and bust your head in a sec . . ." Revlin shot back as another round came particular close to his spot of refuge.

Well, a catch, were she not so maniacally homicidal. It seemed all women he ran into were that way. Except for the Sarge, but even he knew better than to try and hit on her.

Sighing for lost cause, Revlin reached to his waist and yanked a grenade from an ALICE pouch. Pulling the pin he lobbed it in a high arc without even bothering to glance out to check his opponents last position. It was, after all, simply a stun grenade, and even if it landed directly in front of his adversary, it would not likely result in a kill.

But that wasn't the reason he hadn't bothered to look. Revlin hadn't been aiming for the Iscaiot woman. Rather, for the rather large display she had been sheltering in front of. A display so large, it filled the center of the roundhouse like chamber, and he therefore wasn't exactly concerned about missing.

This particular branch of the British Museum was truly a wondrous place. It housed collections of antiquities and oddities from all around the world, and from all periods. Curios that were, at the current moment, being desecrated and destroyed in no less than three separate battles.

Originally, it had simply looked like a robbery; a silent alarm had been triggered on one of the displays of Crusade-era artifacts, and that wing of the museum had gone into lock down, bars sliding shut and reinforced doors closing fast.. Local police had rushed to the scene and entered into a nightmare. Security cameras showed the first team being butchered in a flash of silver blades before the cameras themselves were removed. But the burglars battle cry of "Dust, to Dust, Amen!" had lent an already bad situation a far more sinister aura to those who recognized its voice, its tone, and in turn, its speaker.

Ceras and the remnants of Hellsing had arrived soon after, far faster than the D-11 specialists could be called in. With Bonner blasting through a sewer channel into the subbasement, they had easy egress. And almost immediately, things had gone straight to hell.

The current gun battle was taking place in a room set up to recreate various periods from the Mesozoic on up to early man, complete with replica mammoths, dinosaurs, and even pre-humans. As a boy, the Hellsing trooper remembered his ncle taking him on the rounds of the museum, and as a child of seven, being particularly averse to this exhibit for one chief reason. The centerpiece was a massive skeleton of the Tyrannosaurus Rex; the tyrant king. From snout to tail, this particular example of prehistoric monster was almost 37 feet, with teeth just under a foot in length and as wide around as the barrel of his over/under grenade launcher. The first time he had gazed upon it, the boy had been terrified. Now, as a trooper, he idly reflected that there were far worse things in this world to be afraid of. The Nosferatu, the No Life King, were far more terrible than the largest of the Tyrant lizards. Its funny how some childhood fears, such as a rampant dinosaur, fade with time, while others become suddenly and horribly validated.

The grenade exploded in a blinding flash, having impacted just below the base of the T Rex's skull, forcing the attacking Iscariot to look upward. For a second, she thought the beast itself had reanimated, its body seeming to shake of its own accord as ghostly muscles pulled and strained, its jaw wide in a roar of defiance. But it was simply the shockwave and sound of the grenade, though the Judas Priest would still face the same inevitable result. The massive skeletal structure buckled and collapsed in a spray of bone dust and fossilized marrow-shards, crushing the Paladin beneath it, its final kill drowning out the last screams of its last victim.

Standing up and picking mammoth hair from his jacket, Revlin made a rough bow to the King of all Dinosaurs, before jogging off down the corridor towards the sounds of another firefight. Idly, he hopped that there was a battle ongoing at that Beaches of Normandy diorama. He had always wanted to be there . . .

* * *

The Café inside the main hall of this particular wing of the museum was a refuge of sorts. For the tired parent, struggling to reign herd on a half dozen eager children, for the tired child, tired of being dragged from exhibit to exhibit by two overly intellectual parents. Even, on occasion, for the haggard and twitching guide or caretaker, driven to the brink of patience by yet another troublemaker or know it all. It had clearly been designed with refuge in mind; thick, deep carpeting, elegant freestanding lamps casting a soft glow, mahogany and dark wood trimmings all seemed to welcome the tired soul. One could almost imagine the clink of glasses, the hiss of the espresso machine, the scent of fresh tea, the casual conversation and open discussion such an atmosphere undoubtedly encouraged.  
Currently, the Café was the refuge of Viktor, Stasi, and Bonner, the open discussion was done with 5.56 mm NATO standard ammunition from one side and .48 calibur handgun rounds, as well as the occasional thrown combat knife, glinting dully in the dimmed light of the display cases, from the other.

Originally, the Café had been refuge of Five Hellsing soldiers. One was rapidly bleeding out behind an overturned French sofa, his blood staining the maroon carpet a deeper shade of red as his moans filled the air. The other had been pinned to a fresco of some ancient battle, multiple combat knives piercing his neck, chest, and right arm. He had stopped squirming minutes ago.

But their deaths and the constant suppressing fire wrought by Viktor and Stasi had given Bonner the time she needed. A heavy weapons and demolitions expert, she was a master at blowing things up, or as she billed it, 'combat re-engineering', or rearranging opponents and their goods into more manageable, bite sized pieces.. Right now, she was re-engineering her own little surprise for the two Iscariot operatives that were on the balcony across the way, and while crude, she was certain it would be quite effective.

The M-4 Carbine with the over/under grenade launcher was certainly far from crude. A marvel of a modern military's war machine, it was capable of dispensing a wide variety of devices at range, with, Bonner felt, a certain amount of finesse that full on grenade launchers and dedicated Anti-tank weapons possessed. The roughshod part was the shell she was currently stuffing down its muzzle. Reuters had not been able to acquire live rounds for it, so she had been stuck building her own from dummy rounds the man had been able to get his hands on.

The round she was currently loading was one of her homebrew creations, a phosphorous airburst of her own design, and illegal under current International Law. Now slotted and running hot, she leaned out from behind a formerly overstuffed and overturned lounger, and let fly.

It exploded slightly in front of and above the two assailants in a burst of luminous fire, coating the balcony and its contents with burning gel. The Iscariots screamed as they burned, and the gunfire came to a stop.

"And the wicked shall be purged in Righteous fire . . ." Viktor smirked as he moved quickly out from behind his own makeshift barricade and moved to assist the bleeding Hellsing trooper, unslinging his medi-kit and setting to work.

Stasi and Bonner grinned at him and answered in an odd stereo effect, that had the Iscariots been able to hear over their own screaming, would doubtlessly have infuriated them.

"Amen."

* * *

Ceras let out a rather brutal string of curses as she neatly lunged, tucked and rolled, a few of her choice euphemisms so vile they would have made a sailor blush. Coming from a woman of her stature and relatively pleasant, nondescript looks, such a vocal hemorrhage would have doubtlessly seemed out of place in any normal company.

The vampire's display of acrobatics came to an end as she slid to a stop behind a freestanding display entitled "Spoils of War: The Riches of the Crusades", a line of flung bayonets protruding from the marble floor just behind her. As if to let her know just how close she had been to being skewered, the closest one was still vibrating wildly back and forth.

The appearance of the Iscariot on the evening news had thrown Victoria for a loop initially. First, their was the question of why there were here, and why, of all places, in a museum. That passed through her head quite quickly, as her mind began to prioritize and plan. More important was what kind of response she could get together to deal with the intrusion by the Vatican's minions. 12 troopers, counting her. Bonner would provide an explosive entrance. Stasi and Relvin would lead two separate teams, while Lackmay and herself would act as a final sweeping unit.

Within five minutes of the initial broadcast, Hellsing was on the move, streaking towards its chosen prey.

It wasn't until Ceras had strapped into the shotgun of her SUV that she allowed the full realization of her opponents to hit her.

Definitely more than one operative. All highly trained, and more than likely, fanatical in their determination. And, if she had identified the voice correctly, their commander was likely none other than Alexander 'Hanging Judge' Andersong, the Vatican's trump card. The one who had nearly killed her twice before, beheaded her master, and killed her superior.

It had taken all her willpower to force her fear down, even as the long healed wound to her throat began to itch distractingly. She had prayed to whoever was listening that she had been mistaken in her identifications.

But now, huddled behind the display, her horror had been realized.

Gritting her teeth, she unholstered her last weapon, flicking the safety off the Desert Eagle as she brought it to bear, firing her first few shots blindly over the protective cover of her display, before ducking her head out when she was sure Andersong wouldn't immediately hurl a blessed blade at her head.

Anderson had slid behind a dark marble pillar, his laughter echoing like fire throughout the confines of the hall. Round after round tore into the Paladin's cover, ripping chunks of masonary apart in a hail of lead.

Ceras' Eagle clicked as the last round left the chamber.

Grinning crazily, the blond man stepped out from behind the ruined support, arms out, blades down, forming some sort of demented, bladed human cross as he advanced, eyes glinting with madness.

From his position hunkered behind another pillar just to the right of Ceras' position, Lackmay decided to make his presence known with a flurry or rounds from his FP-90, though the relativly small caliber rounds of the light assault rifle hardly slowed the regenerators advance. Not for the first time the former SAS recon specialist wished that he could bring his Artic Warfare into play, but these close confines were no place to bring a sniper rifle to bear.

Especially when Angeldust Andersong was the target. Ceras hadn't even had time to swing her SAW forward before its barrel had been removed in a flurry of silver strokes, and, despite her inhuman speed, was bleeding heavily from wounds received in a cat a mouse battle that spanned five exhibits and 7 minutes.

"Feh, the dregs of your cursed organization are reduced to this, vampire?" Andersong half laughed, half cackled as he continued a slow advance, his stride hastening as Lackmay paused to reload.

Ceras mind race frantically as she ducked down again, hands checking pockets in a vain hope that she had some how missed an extra round, clip, grenade, or her Harconnen. With her Squad Automatic Weapon laying in pieces, and no other ammunition to speak of she had little illusion as to the limited damage they would cause the regenerator. The Hanging Judge had been hit point blank in the head by the Jackal, after all.

"Sarge! Look out, he's!"

Ceras twisted around to look upward just in time to see that the Hanging Judge had leapt up onto the display and was stabbing down with a blade, aiming straight for her heart, having closed the gap a few seconds faster than she would have though possible.

There are times in life when people display amazing and previously unforeseen strengths or skills. Do or Die circumstances or extreme pressure can result in incredible adrenaline rushes and pure stubborn willpower that have allowed countless improbable, and perhaps even impossible feats to be preformed. The lifting of an overturned car by a single person, the tenacious survival of a wounded soldier or police officer that should have been dead five times over. At times, reserves of strength otherwise unknown force their way to the surface, and this was just such an occasion.

As the blade descended, Ceras Victoria simply willed herself away, to be anywhere but there. And, while she was no longer alive to feel the benefits of an adrenaline rush, her willpower, and her nature of existence, responded to the call.

The bayonet met only cold stone, penetrating six inches deep in the floor as the policewoman phased through to a lower level, her being and belongings in substantiating as she fell.

The priest was momentarily shocked and confused, his manic grind weakening, his eyes losing a glimmer of their fanatic flame. This vampire was a fledgling, only a few years dead, he told himself. The ability to shift was a skill found only in vampire far older and more experienced! It was impossible! Had he so severely underestimated his opponent? Might he actually have to invoke upon the holy magiks to subdue this hellspawn?

It was the hesitation and round of self castigation that nearly cost him his life. Lackmay, seeing his sergeant drop through the floor, and seeing the Iscariot crouched on the ground, staring blankly at his sword, convinced him that close quarters be damned, now was a good time as any to give his rifle a shot. Besides, with only him in the room, he would be the next obvious target, anyway.

.50 mm BMG rounds were originally intended for use in heavy machine guns. Over the years, however, several arms manufacturers had taken it upon themselves to develop rifles capable of utilizing the shells as well. Relatively common and capable of doing an extreme amount of damage, such rounds fitted the sniping tactics quite well. Though more than capable of removing a hostile human target, more often than not the rounds, and by extension, the guns that used them, were used in an anti-material fashion, disabling transports, communications equipment, or any similar suitable target.

Or in this case, cutting a crazed, sword wielding madman down to size. Lackmay leveled and fired in one fluid, rehearsed motion, the round ripping out of the weapon's muzzle and tearing a bloody swath from the priest's left side.

Even as the Church Paladin screamed and spun to confront his new target, Lackmay had ejected the spent round and was sliding the bolt home on a new bullet. He squeezed the trigger pull, and another section of the advancing priest went up in a wash of blood and gore, his trench coat ragged and blood red, intestines and viscera and spilling out of the jagged hole in his stomach.

And then he was on him, twin blades streaking downwards, and the Sniper brought up his rifle to block. The bayonets sparking against the black metal or the barrel and the skeletal stock, before pinging off as the priest readied another swipe.  
The hammer blow struck the priest on the side of the head, bone and flesh caving in with a grisly, meaty crack. The momentum of the strike sent him careening head over heels, landing hard a good 10 feet from his starting point. He landed heavily, blood oozing from his third major wound, though the other two had already begun to heal.

Ceras' attack had caught the man completely off guard. After her initial shock a phasing through the floor, she had managed to gather her wits about her, forget what just happened, and leap back up the way she came, promising to revisit the incident later, when she had the time, and her soldiers weren't in danger. The entire mental process took less than two seconds, but was just enough time for Lackmay to have gotten his first shot off, and hence, the priests attention. So when she had jumped back up through the floor, she had been given the perfect opportunity for a surprise attack. Grabbing a weapon in either hand from the display she had previously sheltered behind, she had likely saved Lackmay's life.

Andersong still refused to die. Kipping up to his feet even as Ceras advanced to deliver another blow, he brought up twin blades into an X, intercepting the long sword's one handed, overhead strike just in front of his head. One eye leered out at the policewoman, ruined face giving a half smile even as she watched bone and flesh reknit, and the gelatinous ooze that was the ruin of his right eye reform.

But, Ceras had picked up two weapons from the display. Her right hand grasped the haft of an already bloodied, massive battle hammer, and she swung it into play, slamming it against the back edge of the blocked blade. The added force shattered the bayonets and drove the edge into the paladin's skull like a hammer and chisel.  
Father Alexander Andersong of the Order Iscariot slumped, and then fell to the ground, as Victoria yanked the sword free.

Stumbling backward, and fighting fatigue and exhaustion, Ceras fiddled with her com bead. "This is Red Eyes, Teams report."

"This is Squad Bravo," Stasi's voice crackled back. "Johnson is dead, Terik is wounded, but he'll make it. Two Iscariot down."

"Charlie here." Relvin acknowledged. "Woman's dead, rest of my squad is . . ."

"Rest of Charlie here, we separated from Relvin to sweep. All other areas are clear."

"Any idea what the Iscariots were doing here, Red Eyes?" Stasi queried.

Reaching down, Ceras pulled a heavy looking satchel from the corpse, and opened the top. The inital engagement with the Hanging Judge had occured in a clean room, where he had been rifiling through bookshelves, before shoving one musty tome into his bag and charging the two operatives.

"Borrowing books, looks like. My Latin is rusty, but it looks like it's a record of something or other from the crusades. I'm not entirely sure, but for now if they want it it's enough that we stopped them . I doubt they just wanted to aid to their library, however. We can check it out fully later. In fact, we have a LOT to discuss later. Leads, meet up tomorrow at the usual place."

A murmur of assent greeted Ceras's answer.

"Red Eyes, Charlie Leader here, I hear the black and whites pounding on the doors.:"

"Roger that, lead. Everyone out and go to ground. Bravo lead, bravo medic, make sure the wounded and dead get the care they need. In the name of God, Impure Souls Shall be Banished unto Eternal Damnation."

"Amen." Came the chorused reply.

All over the museum, Hellsing agents moved towards their point of exit. Had then been a bit slower in leaving, two of them would have been privy to a very disturbing sight indeed. A skull, nearly split to the jaw, slowly reforming, and a wrecked eye and mouth twisting into a crazed smile.

* * *

Author's Notes: It has been quite awhile since I added to this, but I slowly move onward. This chapter was all action, with really no character development, though I did get to introduce a few more of the Hellsing Troops. Originally this next chapter was supposed to have a lot of plot and action, but I figure it would be nice to see how the action alone stands. Rest assured that next chapter will see at least a partial explanation for the Iscariot's intrusion into London and the museum, as well as a closer look at England's undead populace. 


	6. Order: Hammerhand

**Singularity  
Order: Hammer Hand**

Madness had long been Alexander Andersong's companion and it was without reservation that he embraced it. Oh at first he had been hesitant enough; in those few early days so long ago, in a village whose name had long faded from mind and map, he had fought hard against losing himself to his fevered mind.

But the sight of the Hominus Nocturna, of a true blood vampire, had utterly shattered his already damaged psyche. Returning home from the horrors of war bloody, broken and dispirited, only to watch his isolated village be plagued by horrors unimaginable, had laid him low, sending him convulsing with fever and plagued dreams. For whatever reason the vampire had spared him as he picked apart the hamlet over a fortnight, letting the soldier suffer from his visions and sickness. A state which was in no way helped by seeing terror etched on the faces of his caretakers day and night, of seeing the shifting black shadow shape that was the creature upon the move through the windows, mocking him, toying with him. The incomprehensible mutterings of his guardians, the hushed whispers of a liquid night that drained the life from its victims, the sight of the restless dead, all rushed to fill his addled mind with unspeakable dreams.

It was when he was only one of a handful left huddled in the small, heavy stone monetary, that the Iscariot had arrived. The vampire had been toying with them for days by that time, sending the animated corpses of friends and loved ones one by one against the chapel's defenders, enjoying their torture. It was caught by complete surprise by the small band of hunters that walked to challenge it.

The Church Paladins tore through its undead minions forcing it from its refuge in an abandoned tomb at the village's edge, through the once sleepy hamlet, and towards the last stronghold of the defenders. It was likely not their choice that its retreat should take it by the location, but it occurred, none-the-less. The No Life King had shattered apart the barricades and snatched up the crippled Alexander from where he lay moaning with delusion and fever upon a pew, knocking aside the few villagers that tried to oppose it. Perhaps it thought a human hostage would be proof against the Iscariot. Perhaps it merely wished to feed on the most frail. The truth would never be known.  
As Alexander was jostled, even in his weakened state he managed a defense. His bayonet, a silver edged blade picked up from a distant battlefield, a trophy of a grisly conflict, had lain nearby his sick bed and he snatched it up. Without hesitation it was driven between those glaring, hateful red pinpricks of light, eyes that were windows to hell itself, the creature long having abandoned its soul.

It was his first time seeing a body fade to ash, but it would not be the last.

The Iscariot took him with them when they left hours later, his actions proving him worthy of being one of their own. But his madness never left him despite their ministrations. By the time he was under the care of the Order Hospitalars in the Vatican City, Alexander Andersong had given in to his affliction, and began shaping it, perhaps unknowingly, into a tool of the mind. Fanatical madness was the anvil. Zeal, the forge hammer. The undead, the ones unfortunate enough to be caught in between.

The vast majority of the time Andersong did not fear. He did not question. He did not plan, nor think ahead. He simply hated, and reveled in the slaughter of that which had laid him low. Only in the moments of purest bloodlust, when his foes lay about his feet, the work of his Holy Order completed and the blood of the impure not yet dry upon his blades, did Alexander Andersong ever find peace.

'And that' the Hanging Judge reflected as he quietly intoned a prayer, standing over a hastily dug grave, 'Is perhaps the problem.'

Two of his subordinates, regenerators like himself, had survived and the one that didn't was now buried at his feet. He made a note of the location of the small grove, and to have a Vatican team come to exhume the body for transport and re-interment in the catacombs beneath their order's monetary as early as possible. A protestant country was no place for the body of such a hero to rest.

The priest sighed, leaning against a tree and slumping to the ground idly replaying the previous night's battle in his head and searching for faults. What he found did not please him in the least.

Hellsing was not only not destroyed, as their intelligence had suggested. It was capable of mounting a rapid and effective response to his actions. His team had failed in acquiring the sacred Chronicles of the Righteous Order, a tome deemed instrumental in eradicating the creatures of the night.

'And most importantly, I failed in my duty. I believed myself infallible, and did not cast the protective wards. I toyed with her when a swift finish would have been far better. The fledgling was far more powerful than I would have thought, and I paid the price for my arrogance.'

To have been defeated by such a fledgling, to have been brought down by his own hubris was a blow enough to encourage him to take stock and willfully abandon his pleasantly insane realm to observe the world as it actually was.

He had not been required to analyze a situation in neigh on two decades. He had been a hound for so long, leashed to Maxwell's side and plans, he had forgotten what it was to lead a kill team and to objectively plan the downfall of an adversary, to outwit and outsmart them, to revel in tactical, rather than dogmatic, superiority. To force down his psychosis, and fight with his mind as well as his brawn. But he had done it before, and he would do it again. And then he could once more fully embrace the madness that he held so dear.

* * *

The retreat almost went by the numbers. The three different units had left in three separate transports, all heading for various safe houses just as the clock struck two. It looked like everything was going to be fine.

And surprisingly enough, it did.

All three Hellsing squads were currently safely ensconced in safe houses throughout the Greater London area. Terik, after receiving a blood transfusion, was on the mend. Weapons were cleaned, gear counted and stowed, and stock taken.

Some stock took a lot longer to take than others.

Idly sipping a blood packet with the TV droning in the background Ceras had long ago turned her thoughts inward. On some level she was aware that she was running up a power bill and she was drooling slightly out of the corner of her mouth. Dimly she could hear the soft, faint swishing of cloth on metal, as Lackmay tried to buff out the scratches on his Artic Warfare in the other room. He had asked her if she had any black nail polish when they had first arrived at her domicile, obviously looking to temporarily touch up his damaged baby.

That was something he would never do again. The evil eye had practically pinned him to the wall, and the grin would have been more fitting on the Hanging Judge.

Ceras, apparently, was not a Goth.

But the Hanging judge was definitely on the young commander's mind. According to the news, no bodies had been discovered, and that tidbit of information had been added to her post-action review for further digestion.

"No bodies, which means, in all likelihood, the damn Bayonet freak is still alive, and we have at least one other regenerator on our hands; I doubt he could carry three separate corpses.. Which I should have expected. If Master didn't manage to stop him its doubtful that I could have.' Ceras mentally sighed as she mulled over her thoughts, licking her lips to remove the drool before continuing her mental train.

'I survived the battle, but a lot of it was luck, plain and simple. I didn't panic, that was good. But if Andersong had used those binding spells like on the train, or I hadn't miraculously managed to phase through the floor, I'd be dead. Deader. Whatever.' She paused on one of the thoughts, and considered it more thoroughly.

Over the past month, Ceras' skills had been improving in leaps and bounds. Her strength and senses had increased markedly, and her resistance to injury was increasing exponentially. But dropping though the floor was the first of the 'big' powers she had seen Alucard display that she had successfully demonstrated.

'A big step forward; though I imagine I've been somewhat slow in acquiring it. I don't know how I did it either. I just wished I wasn't there, and suddenly, I wasn't. Now that I know I can do it, I need to learn to control it.'

"Yo Sarge! I'm calling it a night. Err, morning. Or something. Crashing in the normal place." Lackmay said, as he stood in the kitchen doorway, his wiry frame illuminated in back light relief cast by the flickering television.

"Pulling a vampire, Lackmay? Going to sleep the day away?" she joked.

"When in Rome . . ." Lackmay started, before frowning, realizing the expression he had just used.

"Lackmay, if I ever see you acting like one of those stupid paladins, you'll never sleep comfortably again. I guarantee it.."

"Ehheh." Lackmay grimaced, and disappeared down the hall, booted feet making muffled thumps on the threadbare carpet, until Ceras heard the squeaky groan of her guest mattress, and the contented sigh of the other soldier.

An objective viewer would see that single gesture, a single unguarded, relaxed sigh, as Ceras' greatest improvement. Super strength, enhanced stamina, the ability to phase through solid objects, all were admirable. But not nearly so admirable as to rival that which she now inspired in her subordinates. They joked with her. They relaxed around her. They fought for her, and trusted her with their lives . Today one had died for her.

To follow her to the gates of hell, and then willingly storm them. Ceras was becoming a commander of men.

The vampire had yet to realize that, though. Her brain was still on autopilot, still taking solace in her normal routine of fighting and reviewing, of making sure she was up to par, that she wasn't needlessly endangering the lives of her subordinates, to see that.

Perhaps, that was exactly why her team was performing so well.

Sighing, Ceras leaned back in her chair and tossed the packet towards the recently emptied trash, eyes fixating on a single spot of the heavy wooden dining table in front of her. A look of determination passed over her face, before she raised her hand, and stabbed it downward . . .

In the other room, Lackmay could have sworn he heard a loud thump, followed by his sergeant swearing up a storm.

* * *

"Sir Integral."

The hard piercing voice would have made a lesser being blush. The Lady Hellsing didn't flinch, but returned the hard stare of her comrade with one of her own. No venom traveled the gloomy, cold distance over the round table between the two Knights, however. The respect for each other was mutual, though the disdain each felt unavoidable.

The acting magistrate of the Knights of the Round continued after a poignant pause.

"As you know your case has been up for review for several weeks now, and debates within the Round Table and within member organizations themselves have been conducted. It may interest you if not surprise you that the Queen herself has weighed in on the matter."

Integral didn't reply, but shifted her gaze to each member of the Knights in turn, eyes unblinking even in the cool dryness of the chamber.

No one flinched, and her gaze was met uniformly. A group of peers, perhaps even equals. All concerned first and foremost with the defense of Great Britain.

"The last major incident you responded to resulted in the death of over 90 of your command. Over 50 civilians also lost their lives. Roughly 3 million pounds of property damage to the area surrounding the conflict was noted, to say nothing of the damage done to the chapel complex itself. More importantly, we were almost unable to contain the events from the media. Bribes had to be paid to multiple media conglomerates."

"As we are well aware however you were successful in your practice. While the losses incurred are neither desirable nor exemplary, your efforts and results speak for themselves. Additionally your remaining troops seem to be demonstrating a loyalty to your cause and command that we had thought non-existent. As you are aware it appears you have 20-30 operatives left functioning as a single active cell. They have been successful in countering freak activities, though it is obvious their effectiveness is limited by their size. They have only been able to respond to the most serious of incidents."

A hint of a smile tugged at the Hellsing's mouth. Personal pride, or pride in the compliments to her organization, it was anyone's guess.

No one did. It was an irrelevant issue. The job was done, London was spared. Everything else was of no consequence.

"Which brings us to the goings on of last night. Your soldiers met and clashed with, as far as we can tell, members of the Vatican's Section XIII inside the Third Expansion of the British Museum. Though not the initial response Hellsing's counterattack managed to drive the Iscariot out though no bodies from either group were found. 12 officers of the city police force were killed as well as 7 museum guards either by .50 caliber slugs, bayonets, combat knives, or a large bore weapon we have yet to match shell casings to. We have not yet identified the target of the Iscariot raid, either. A section of a display of Crusade era artifacts seems to have been their primary goal but the catalogue of items it contained is missing and the display itself was subject to all manner of destructive forces. We cannot tell if anything has been taken, or what purpose it might serve in their hands. But this drives home the nature of the situation we find ourselves in. With Hellsing gone the Vatican is clearly stepping up operations on our ground and the freaks, while less widespread than usual, are definitely there. In fact their silence has some of us worried."

Another pause, before the magistrate leaned back in his chair, arching his hands in a temple.

"Which leads us to the final point. Sir Integral Wingates Hellsing, on the Authority of the Knights of the Round Table and Her Majesty, you are hereby reinstated as Hellsing's Commander with funds allocated as for the reconstruction and rebuilding of said institution. The vote was unanimous. As for your . . . Trump Card, we of the Council have been somewhat divided and a definite consensus could not be reached. But, the Queen herself intervened; as such, you may once again bring him into service."

Integral nodded, stood, and saluted. Quickly a gray suited agent moved to her side and removed the cuffs fastening her hands with a deft twist of his wrist and a snap of the lock.

And she spoke. "Gentlemen. If you will excuse me then, I have a duty to perform."

The acting magistrate and the other members stood, all bowing slightly.

Bowing in return, Sir Hellsing spun on her heel, and stepped into battle once more.

* * *

**Author's Notes**: I really should stop saying what will be in the next chapter, as it never seems to pan out. At best, I get one or two of the scenes I mention in it, and just ignore the rest. Take the opening sequence of this chapter. I have no idea where in hell it came from, but as it turns out, I like it. Ignoring what I just said, expect to see Integral out and about next chapter. Everything else is up in the air, though I will say I have Alucard's reintroduction scene written and one of the two plotlines fairly solid in my head. At least two chapters of material will come out prior Alucard's return as Ceras has to advance a bit more, and Hellsing has to re-solidify, so those of you waiting for him to have a major part will have to wait a bit longer. Besides, once he comes out, it will become a lot harder to write things without having a Deus Ex Machina thing going. I mean, outside of a major Iscariot action, or another Elder Vampire, what really challanges him?

As a side note and point of possible intrest, I've always kind of viewed Ceras as the equivelent of a battle tank, particularly after I saw her with the Harconnen and the twin hopper fed gattling cannons in the manga. In keeping with that image I've tried my best to portray her style as heavy handed bordering on draconian in combat, with no effort at all to be elegant or subtle. Alucard is the elegent shortblade. Ceras, the 20 pound battlehammer. Don't know why I bothered to write that. Now on to something completely different.

**Review Responses:**

Lady Blackmour: As usual, thanks for the beneficent and critical review. I will certainly try to be a bit more varied in my use of tenses, but knowing myself, how well I shall succeed is far from certain. As to a possibility of a pre-reader, such thoughts intrigue me. I fear the possible obligation it may bring to then actually write on some sort of schedule, however.

Seraphim 74: Thank you for your kind and lengthy review. For the longest time, I imagined that this story would remain nothing more than the first couple chapters as well, given that this was supposed to be a one shot in the first place. This far in, I don't think I could just abandon those that like the story though, so I imagine that I will finish it. Slowly. And I mean geologically slowly. Seriously, the tectonic plates move faster than I do.

To all the other reviewers: Thank for taking the time to review. It really made my day to see that people are interested in my story.


	7. Order: Returned

**Singularity  
Order: Returned**

T8K is an up and coming name in the growing field of bio-engineering and genetics. Founded two years ago by several grad students and their professor it had over the course of a few lucky breaks and diligent hard work, become much sought after. Their last breakthrough in the creation of a synthetic plastic/cloth material from genetically altered plants had left them flush with cash. Especially resistant to kinetic force as well as being sturdy and lightweight, Synthguard was now sported by many well equipped military and para-military forces the world over. Including those Hellsing Soldiers now tearing down their headquarter's hallways, exchanging gunfire with a variety of once living employees.

One Hellsing Operative however was taking a very different view of the situation. Thumbing through a report, she tossed it to the plush seat next to her as the car rounded a bend and the building came into view.

'_This facility acts as both headquarters and warehouse for T8K and the materials they use for experiments. Similar to the materials found in the chip factory in that Hong Kong raid a couple months ago._' Integral reasoned, mulling over the information she had just absorbed. '_Meaning what's in here is not likely your average ganger turned undead. Whoever is running this raid MUST want to create more freeks, which implies that they know the process. It also implies that they have no set source of raw materials at this time. Thank heaven for small favors._'

"Lady Integra. We have arrived." The Rolls Royce came to a smooth stop at the driver's - Walter's – announcement, pulling up in front of a massive police cordon. Eyes swiftly surveying the scene, glasses flashing ever so menacingly with reflected glare, the Knight stepped out of the car and onto the pavement.

A dozen police cars had formed a circular barrier around the building, with yellow warning tape and black and yellow orange traffic barriers guarding the spaces between cars. Policemen milled nervously in the night, pacing back and forth. Those that held shotguns and rifles clutched them nervously, protectively. The ones with side arms had the holsters unclipped if the weapons were not drawn already.

_They had seen things. Impossible things._

Idly Integra noted there were no D-11 Command or Transport vehicles. That was odd given the nature of the situation. D-11 was hard pressed to match freeks, but they would have normally been summoned anyway.

A man in a Captain's uniform approached the car, puzzlement and a slight bit of fear evident in the man's face. By the time he reached her the Hellsing Family retainer had left the driver's seat and was present at her side, lanky form standing over both his master and the new arrival.

"Ma'am, I'm sorry, but this is a restricted area, I'm afraid you'll . . ."

"Captain. Are you in charge here?" Icy voice. No emotion.

"Yes, Ma'am, but you will have to . . ."

"You misunderstand, I am not a civilian. My name is Hellsing, and I am here to relieve you of command." Integra's tone brooked no argument as she stared down the officer.

For his part, the officer froze in fear. _Hellsing_. The name had done the rounds at the various precincts and bars officers favored. Stories of a cold eyed lady and a government spook unit that would descend on some of the most difficult situations, assume command, and neutralize the threat, only to vanish once the job had been completed. Usually after the police had suffered an unfortunate number of casualties. The Captain had had a bad enough feeling as to the operation already, what with initial squads encounter when they tried to enter the building. Two made it back out from the initial five.

"Ah, yes, Sir. I understand. My troops are already pulled back."

"I will be assuming overall command of the situation, including troops. They will be responding to my orders. But why have you pulled them back? Surely you have NOT contained the situation yet. I would not have been called had that been the case."

A frown marred her features, her voice tinged with disproval. Cowards had no place in any of Her Majesty's servants. The man fidgeted slightly.

"Ah, you see, another . . . well, speaking plainly, Ma'a . . . Sir, that other 'spook' group arrived, and we figured . . ."

" 'Other' spook group, captain? And what are you implying about my organization?" Integra's reply was instant and harsh, but the information just garnered sent her brain into overdrive.

According to the files she had been handed at her release several days ago, she had been given more than adequate funds to find, hire, and re-equip Hellsing to levels actually exceeding the organization's previous capacity. Already, inquires were being made within the various Round Table Organizations and the British Military as to who might be interested in joining such an operation.

But the Lady Knight was far more interested at present with finding out just who had survived the battle with Incognito, and subsequently been drafted unto Ceras' Command. Thus far, despite her efforts, she had not been able to contact or find her once and future subordinate. That, she supposed, was a mark in the young vampire's favor, though it hindered her efforts at rebuilding Hellsing. The hardened survivors would make an admirable core group upon which to build.

Yet here fate was tossing her a bone. Though Integra imagined Ceras would contact her once it became clear Hellsing was operating again, the Lady Knight was not willing to rush out and announce to every paranormal entity in London that the organization was back. This encounter would provide the ideal contact point.

Assuming, of course, that the other 'spook' group was in fact the splinter faction.

The officer's response broke her out of her chain of thoughts. "No . . . Nothing at all, I assure you, sir! Well, you see, we at the precinct, well, its obvious Hellsing is some kind of counter-terrorist thing, I mean, and well that other group that's been operating these past couple months is already here. You know, the ones that stopped the museum fight a few nights ago, and the subway before that, and the warehouse prior to that?"

"Are they? And did they just stop to inform you as they entered?" This time, there was tone to Integra's voice. The sarcasm was unmistakable.

At her side, Walter smirked and stifled a snort at the comment, idly imagining the strawberry blond waving cheerfully with a shouted '_Yo ho!_' at the assembled officers as she and her team sauntered past, Harconnen strapped to her back.

The officer looked at the retainer oddly before continuing on.

"No sir. They, umm . . . well, we know they tend to impersonate D-11 or military units, but usually don't catch on until it's too late to stop them. They ran the northern blockade in a D-11 APC about ten minutes ago, and just crashed it into the side entrance. We called headquarters to see if one of the squads had been dispatched, and they said no, so I just figured it was a government order and they wanted it hush hush, so . . ."

"I see." Integra didn't know quite how to reply to that little bit of information.

'Where had they gotten an APC?' she thought, but shoved that thought aside when another thought hit her.

"Walter, adjust the radio unit to standard frequencies and use the standard operation ciphers."

"Yes, Lady Hellsing." The retainer reached through the open window of the Rolls, and fiddled with a knob on a broadcaster that rested in the front seat. Abruptly, static filled the air, and then resolved into battle chatter as the decoder did its job.

"Bravo! Bravo, Charlie lead here! East stairwell, sixth floor, we're tied up. Primary bolting down towards the basement, but he flooded the way with fodder. Taking time to get through, they've got autos."

A voice Integra didn't recognize sounded over the background din of a firefight.

"Charlie, Bravo lead. Third floor, northeast side. Sending Bonner and Ves to assist. They'll be hosing the stairwell entrance before entering."

That voice she did know. Corporal Stasi, leader of Team 5. One of her more able Squad Leaders. In an instant, she decided to let the scene unfold and not interfere. It would give her a chance to see exactly how well the group operated in her absence, and what kind of weapon Ceras had forged them into.

"What about Primary? You going after him?" Charlie lead called back, a note of hesitation in his voice.

"Negative, Charlie. Red Eyes and I are on his tail, he's in the subbasement and running for the sewer. Continue clearing floors and request back up as needed." The lackadaisical voice seemed to drift over the com, despite the firefight.

Another voice she recognized, Specialist Lackmay. Red Eyes would have to be Ceras, she guessed.

"Lackmay, Bravo. I can't reach Red Eyes. She's with you?"

"Red Eyes is fine, but her headset is in pieces. Combat damage from busting down a door. I'm relaying orders. Continue clearing floors, and be cautious about it."

"Alpha, Charlie Lead. Understood."

"Alpha, Bravo Lead. Likewise."

"Entering sewer now, contact will likely break up. Stasi, you're in charge. Red Eyes says to finish up and get out, as per usual."

"Re-engineer here. Third floor door. Engaging targets."

A distant _krump _sounded, the unmistakable noise of a grenade detonation.

"Clear Bonner?"

Integra paused at that name, idly remembering a brunette American with a penchant for explosives.

"Third floor landing, clear."

"Charlie, Re-eingineer. Clearing the stairwell using air burst pattern anti-personnel frags. There's gonna be a lot of shrapnel flying in a sec. Three count, enter after the third."

"Roger, Engineer. Charlie is out of the stairwell."

Three more distant explosions.

"Entering, nothing left. You shredded em."

"Bravo lead, done here. If you got your kills, we should be done."

"Roger. We checkout now, Stasi?"

"Yeah, head to the sewer. We really need to find a new way to leave these buildings."

"Like what? Drive out in your Hotwired APC? I don't think so . . ."

Accepting the mic from Walter's extended hand, Integra opened a channel. It wouldn't do to let them slip away before she could contact them, if indeed the sewers blocked transmissions.

"Corporal Stasi, this is Commander Integral Wingates Hellsing. Confirmation code Zebra-three-oh-tango-niner. Reply."

A moment of silence, followed by a burst of static.

"Ummm . . . for real?"

Integra practically face faulted.

"Shut up, Revlin. Sorry, sir, confirmation code received and acknowledge. Corporal Stasi at your servi . . . Crap! This guy isn't quite dead yet, Get off my leg, bugger, off my leg!" The sound of automatic weapons chatter hissed over the com, before a fourth floor window exploded in a spray of glass and lead, a zombie jerking like a puppet on strings before falling to the ground as machine gun fire tore apart its body.

"Stupid, brain dead, brain eating monty-python rejects . . . and not even a moose . . ." a half muttered, half whispered reply came over the band. The surrounding officers sweatdropped, ever so slightly. Had the coms box not been such a powerful unit, the mutter would have been indecipherable over normal static. A second later the voice resumed in a louder, more serious tone. "Situation is contained, sir, and we are exiting now. Is it safe for us to use an actual entrance, or are we still running covert?"

"We are authorized, Corporal. Use the main doors. I will be waiting."

"I'll send a runner for the Sergeant Ceras and Specialist Lackmay. They wen . . ."

"I am aware. I have been monitoring your conversation."

"Ah, yes Sir. Stasi to all squads, report to main entrance. Look alive, though. Just in case. Bonner, Ves, catch up with Alpha, give them the news".

It had taken only a few minutes before Hellsing's splinter faction met up with their recently released commander. As they emerged from the front doors, weapons out and ready, Integra took their measure.

'_Hmm. Only about 15, far less than I thought. Stasi is alive, and so is Foreman. Lackmay, too, from the sound of it_.' She thought, relieved that at least three of her more valued troopers had survived. '_Piecemeal gear, though. I wonder how Ceras has been paying them._'

The Corporal reached her, and gave a brisk salute.

"Sir Hellsing. All floors are confirmed clear. Trooper Ves and Specialist Bonner have gone after Specialist Lackmay and Sergeant Ceras. The status of the primary target is unknown, though I imagine it is dead or about to be." Stasi reported, holding his MP-5 across his chest. Around him, the other soldiers formed up into loose squads, weapons still at the ready.

"I see. Your men may disband. Who has been in charge in my absence?"

"Sergeant Victoria, Sir. I've been acting as second in command. We have 15 troopers currently battle ready, 3 out with injuries. Two have been killed in action."

"I will need a full report. Your men are dismissed after they recover the D-11 vechicle and return it. They are to report to Hellsing Hall tomorrow. You, however, shall remain."

"Sir! You heard the boss, now snap to!" Spinning on his jackbooted heel, Stasi barked the order and sent the other troopers back towards the abandoned APC in a flurry of salutes and flak jackets.

* * *

Ceras, Lackmay, and the runner team emerged from a manhole near the scene almost an hour later reeking of raw, black sewage and in a thoroughly curious mood. It would be expected for the four to be in foul tempers. Moods so foul that they probably would rival, but likely not surpass the sludge that clung to their gear, webbing, and clothes.

They were bitter, disgusted, and more than a little displeased. But they were also curious, excited, and nervous. One more so than the others. This operation, and every operation prior, had been under her guidance and imperative. Now that the commander had returned the subordinate was anxious and more than a little unsettled as to what her review would be.

Not to mention the fact that Ceras was uncertain of whether or not Integra would even approve of the independent actions, let alone her performance during the outings. It was highly probable that the Commander and other powers that be would take issue with a vampire leading an anti-vampire task force. Not to mention the litany of felonies she had committed in pursuit of her quarry.

"Red Eyes, I'll follow you to the Gates of Hell. On a good day, I'll storm them for ya. But never, ever again ask me to chase a freek through the sewer." Lackmay grimaced, taking off his dew rag, twisting the bandanna like black head cover to wring out some rather off colored water. "I don't think I'll ever get the smell out. Of me or my gear."

"The freek has been eliminated then, Sergeant?"

All four troopers startled and stiffened at the voice, but Ceras found herself first, spinning sharply on her heel and saluting.

"Yes, Sir. Specialist Lackmay put a round through his leg, and I finished him off, Sir." Ceras replied hastily as her mind spun, trying to figure out what she was going to say next. She knew her brief description was unnecessary, but hoped it might by a few seconds to process the situation.

'Shit, just my luck.' Ceras thought. A one in four chance of coming up on the side of the building Integra had parked on, and they hit it dead on. And didn't notice the Knight until after she had approached. 'So much for planning a response.'

"Don't bother to salute." Integra spoke, indicating the four troopers. "Sergeant, remain here, the rest of you are dismissed; the vehicle behind me will take you to Hellsing Hall. Get cleaned up and report tomorrow."

The three looked at Integra, then at their Sergeant, eyeing her nervously, unsure. They didn't want to leave a comrade behind, be it to the fates of the enemy, or an upset commanding officer.

Ceras inclined her head slightly at them, and they trudged off towards a waiting and recently summoned Hellsing APC. The brief exchange between the Sergeant and her men did not go unnoticed by the elder woman.

The Vampire was not the only one who didn't know where to start. To Integra, Ceras had always been something of a . . . well, not a trump card, but not a bad hand, either. A wild card, who could either lock up or turn the tide of a battle. Ceras had never been factored in as a crucial player in any of Hellsing's planned operations; never trained, and never used to her full potential, overshadowed as she was by the presence of her Master.

'_A rather large mistake_,' Integra noted, looking over her subordinate. Removed from the relative safety of the full organization, the nosferatu had obviously become a formidable leader and strong combatant. The loyalty of her men demonstrated that clearly, as had Corporal Stasi's brief run down of events given to her in the previous 15 minutes. But despite her inward pleasure at seeing the young woman excel, the Knight was at a loss for where to begin.

An uncomfortable silence filled the air between the two, even as the diesel engine of the APC roared to life and began its trip back to headquarters.

"Your men trust you, I see." Integra spoke.

"I . . . I'm sorry, Sir. I did not mean for them to look to me over you. I . . ." The words came out quicker than the Vampire would have liked, but they were truthful and somehow confident, even in her haste. Ceras had known in the back of her mind that Integra would be released eventually, and she would have to face her. Memory served to remind the ex-policewoman only of the elder's castigation and reprimands. Again, it appeared she had erred in Integra's eyes.

The knight cut her off, picking up on how the vampire had misread her previous statement.

"You misunderstand, Sergeant . . . no, Major, yes, Major Victoria. We have much to discuss, but now is neither the time, nor the place. But I will ease your mind in one regard. You have my respect, and . . . my appreciation. Meet back at Hellsing in three hours time; Stasi is already en route and I have let the rest of the men go. I expect a full debriefing at that time. And . . ." the Knight wrinkled her nose in distaste. "I suggest you wash yourself prior to arriving."

* * *

Paladin General Sigsmund of the Order Iscariot was a name known to even the most novice member of Section 13. The first of the regenerators, he terrorized the enemies of the Church during the Crusades of the last millennium, putting heretics, traitors, and undead to the sword with neither mercy nor qualm as he carved a bloody, if rather unremembered streak across history.

The nature of his death goes unrecorded among the moldy latin tomes and honor rolls of the Iscariot's stronghold library. When the Crusades came to a close and the fervor that inspired the massive martial undertakings disappeared, Sigsmund took a full legion of his personal, loyal troops east with him, promising to finish what the Crusades had started and what others had lost faith in.

But the Legio Righteous Order vanished before ever reaching its first promised stop, a city upon the River Nile. After five years, Section 13 pronounced Sigsmund as dead in the service of the church, and his legion as disbanded. And if it were not for the appearance of the Chronicles of the Righteous Order, the General Paladin would likely have remained a simple memory of the Iscariot.

The book first appeared, as near as Section 13 could determine, sometime during the Second World War. Nazi troops looted it from the private collection of a wealthy British tycoon, who had apparently acquired it from an importer located in Cairo. When the Reich fell, the book was returned to the tycoon, who sold it to the British museum in order to help recoup losses suffered during the war. It spent several decades lost amongst the archives and storage rooms of the great institution, until it was unveiled two months ago as part of a new exhibit on the Crusades.

Meanwhile, the Church Paladins had acquired a copy of the document, sans illustrations, from a raid on a Nazi cultist ceremony in France. According to the text, Sigsmund was not dead, but merely waiting for a time when his services would once more be required. He had left his legion and retreated to an abandoned temple within the sands of the Sahara, where he would slumber until awoken to enact Righteous Judgement once more.

Of what befell the Legio Righteous Order, nothing is written.

Or so Alexander Andersong and his team had been told. Their specific mission order was to recover the tome from the museum, and within it find the illustrations that apparently depicted the exact location of the Tomb of the General Paladin.

Section 13 was intent on resurrecting a sleeping hero. If the goals of the organization were to be made known to the world at large it would no doubt cause a great deal of concern amongst the older, more knowledgeable entities of the world.

And that concern would only be partially based on the thought of the Iscariot possibly regaining a champion. Paladin Sigsmund was something more, and at the same time, something less. Far less.

As it was only one of those entities knew of the intentions of the Iscariot, but soon more would learn. The Nox Praetor had waited centuries to impart its wisdom and wrath, to find someone worthy of its guidance.

In the battle in the museum, it had deduced the Iscariots intentions, being present at the conflict by simple coincidence and recognizing the book they both struggled for. Equally as important the Nox Praetor had found an individual it deemed worthy and even now it guarded her side.

Soon, it would make itself known, and all would be laid bare before this strange 'Hellsing'.

* * *

Ceras stretched her arms out in front of her, yawning widely as she tromped down the hallway, reveling in the familiar feel of the worn and polished dark wood floors and the warm breeze that seemed to blow down the corridor. The comforting scent of an expensive cigar wafted on the air currents, and she inhaled deeply, feeling muscles she hadn't know were clenched relax and go slack as she took in the gentle idiosyncrasies of her home.

_Home. Hellsing._

She smiled at the thought before shifting in her new clothes, the black cargo pants still itchy and stiff, straight off the shelf of Hellsing's armory. Likewise she readjusted her brand new long sleeved loose fitting fatigue blue shirt, and shifted around her somewhat worn D-11 vest. Originally she had started wearing her old uniform just to fool police and officials at incident scenes but found it more serviceable and reassuring than her Hellsing outfit. The skirt was a bit less than practical when she was leading a charge. She had moved the Hellsing shoulder badge to the back of the vest between her shoulder blades and the vests pockets were filled out, but not bulging, with a few extra weapons clips. A rear draw holster sporting a new Desert Eagle, the warhammer from the museum clipped to a carbiner on her load bearing belt harness, and knife grip protruding from her new jackboots completed a more functional, practical, and less official look.

And she no longer smelled. A definite plus.

Integra hadn't let her into the Rolls for the ride back to Hellsing Hall, though Ceras could hardly blame her for the smell she bore. Besides, the Hall wasn't that far, and the night was pleasant enough. An easy lope had seen her there inside an hour, and two hours later, she had managed to rid herself of the awful smell.

It had given her time to reflect on the changes, both the ones she had wrought and the ones that were going to be worked by her returned commander. The initial change, her promotion to Major, was something she did not expect. Even more shocking was Integra's profession of respect. A woman she had put on a pedestal, one that she had seen in the qualities she herself desired, had raised her up.

In D-11 she had been the new guy, and a girl at that. Kitty as she had been named affectionately. She had hated it; she wanted to be taken seriously, wanted to stand by her comrades, wanted to protect those that she could. But they would not let her; too weak, too clumsy. Hellsing had been more of the same, unable to rid herself of the dual burdens of her vampire status and her weakness and hesitation before Alucard and Integra.

No more. In the vacuum of command Ceras had stepped forward and with no one to tell her she couldn't, and no one to look down on her or for her to hide behind, she had developed immensely.

An hour long shower had done wonders for Ceras' state of mind, as well as her smell. The past few revelations were but a trace of her self-created epiphany. A new force had been created over the past few weeks, and it was just beginning to realize its full strength. Ceras Victoria was a creature to be reckoned with. _'And_,' Ceras thought, as she grasped the doorknob to Integra's office '_come Hell or high water, I'm not going back_.'

* * *

**Author's Notes:**

Well, yet another chapter completed. I will say I was not particularly satisfied with this chapter in general but wanted to get it out of the way. The first scene especially was an experiement; I wanted to convey a sense of confusion and conflict, hence the lack of attribution to a lot of the com chatter. For the most part, it doesn't really matter who it is shouting about on the vox, so I decided to let it run on in that vein and see how the technique worked. If reviews note it as too confusing, I'll go back and change it. Additionally, I wasn't able to delve as deeply into Integra's character as I wanted, but I've set it up to do so next chapter. Other than that, Ceras has been promoted, Hellsing is reforming, and the Iscariot are trying to awaken a sleeping champion. Should be an interesting next couple of chapters. And, for those counting, one more chapter until Alucard struts once more upon the stage. And I can't wait to put the finishing touches on his reintroduction sequence . . . let's just say he and Ceras have a very interesting meeting.

**Reviewer Responses:**

Lady Blackmour: Again, a constructive and valued review. Glad you think I did the inner workings of Andersong well. It was an enjoyable scene to write. If I ever make up my mind to get a pre-reader, You'll definitely be on the top of the list, heck, if you don't mind, I may send you a couple parts of the next chapter I'm having trouble with for revision, if you don't mind. No guarntee, though, I'm far to lazy to be held to it.

Elijah Snow: Thanks for your wonderful review. I'm glad that you approve and find my story to be enjoyable. I do my best. The review really made my day, thanks.

Runemeister: Ah yes, AxC. In time. Expect no sudden revelations or epiphanies, once Alucard does reappear. Sudden, spontaneous declarations of undying affection are all well and good, but as with everything else in this story, expect it to be slow in developing.

Proles Draco: Thanks for the review, and noting the humor. I try and include at least one or two semi-amusing bits in each chapter. I guess that would be the manga influence speaking.

Seraphim 74: I plan on finishing this story, but Murphy may or may not interfere; if he does and I forsee his intervention, I'll post to that effect. That said, as evidence in some previous chapters, it has on occasion been three quarters of year between chapters.

As to the relative ease with which the Iscariot was dispatched, I tend to view it thusly. Iscariot is just like any other, similar operation, Hellsing included. It has its trump cards, such as the Hanging Judge, and it has its rank and file, like the cannon fodder that were picked apart in Conflict. Were Section 13 to be comprised of nothing but regenerators on Andersong's level, its likely that the Undead would have been exterminated in their entirety a long time ago save for a few of the powerhouses such as Alucard and Incognito. The previous conflict was between well trained, heavily experienced Hellsing Mercenaries and two junior Section 13 operatives and one extremely novice agent. That's discounting Ceras and Alexander. Two of the three Iscariot new guys were regenerators, but that in itself doesn't imply actual combat prowess. Additionally, their intelligence suggested that Hellsing was all but dead and certainly not capable of mounting an organized, well armed, and quick striking response. As for Andersong being defeated, he got careless. So sure that he was now the Big Dog without Alucard, he got sloppy. Had he bothered to use holy magic, such as the binding wards, or eliminate Lackmay initially instead of going blindly after Ceras, Singularity would have ended right then and there. A developing Ceras vs. one of the Iscariot's Aces at full power? The results would be painfully obvious for the poor policewoman. The next major reappearance of the Hanging Judge will show him as a much more thoughtful, yet still homicidal maniac that is more than an equal for Ceras. I feel that showing that there is more to Alexander than just mad bloodlust and invincibility is necessary in order to make him more than just a recurring gag type villain, whose repeated appearances and convenient defeats, while entertaining, would serve no purpose other than filler. If he's infallible against everyone but Alucard, he becomes boring and predictable. It is also important to note though that Andersong has yet to come remotely close to killing Alucard; the vampire has yet to remove any of the major restrictions to his abilities to combat him and yet has come out on top repeatedly.


	8. Order: History

Singularity 

Order: History

It had been a long, long evening, to say the least, a fact that quite escaped the two soldiers until the first rays of dawn broke through the curtains, casting a warm, melancholy glow onto the dark hardwood floors. Added to the thick curls of cigarillo smoke that hung in the warm air, it was a strange, yet somehow comforting scene; Integra was leaned back in her chair behind her desk, Ceras across and seated in a high backed leather lounger, the deep red of the leather in contrast to her blue uniform. Her tactical vest and gear were hanging off the armrest, having been removed hours ago.

The conversation had run the gamut, from starting off as a hard and fast debriefing to something of a less formal round table of where, when, and how exactly to rebuild the shattered institution, which was now wrapping up. All in all, it looked far more like two old friends catching up with one another than the reuniting of a commander and subordinate. Aside, of course, from the nature of the conversation, and the odd 'sir' and 'lady Integra' being tossed about.

"I suppose it is settled then. Are you sure you want me to act as the ranking officer, Sir?"

Integra nodded across the table. "Yes. Right now, outside of myself and Walter, you are the most familiar with our activities, and have the best relationship with the surviving troops." She paused, smirking before continuing, "So long as you don't ask them to storm a sewer, apparently."

Ceras reddened slightly, sniffing self consciously as if making sure the smell of the earlier excursion was gone, before nodding. "Right. Sir . . . are you intending on unsealing . . ."

Integra nodded. "Eventually. Soon. The Queen has given me permission, and he will be paramount in its execution. Still, given the situation, releasing him now would be a bit pointless. Unless Section 13 makes another move, I think it would be best for Hellsing if we formed a troop base that did not necessarily think we have a trump card to fall back on."

"Speaking of the Iscariot, Sir, what do you think of the book? Any idea why they wanted it?"

Integra shook her head, glancing at the tome at it lay before her. "Not a clue, though I already have our connections in MI-6 pulling data on it. But it will be awhile . . ."

"I believe I might be able to clear that up."

The unknown, dignified voice startled both women into action, sleepiness cast aside and eyes wide. Integra bolted upright with her hand going for her top desk drawer and the concealed handgun therein while Ceras jumped to her feet and had her Desert Eagle up with the safety off in one smooth motion, red eyes scanning from left to right even as she interposed herself between Integra and any possible attacker.  
"There is no need for alarm. I am hear to help, I assure you." The disembodied voice continued on, though in truth, both women found it a bit hard to fear an accent that would seem to fit best on a bespectacled, tweed wearing, grey haired librarian. To say it wasn't threatening was something of an understatement.

Still, its source wasn't visible. And until he opened his mouth, Alexander Anderson seemed perfectly normal, albeit his exceptional height.

Caution was the watchword.

"Where are you? Who are you?" Integra's eyes narrowed, thumbing the safety off her chromed revolver.

The voice responded clearly and without hesitation.

"My name is Nox Praetor, former High Guard to the Council of Three Judges. My existence as such is a somewhat curious thing, you see. I have no body, per se."

"A ghost?" Ceras frowned. A ghost would be a new one on her, but given what she had seen . . . what she in fact was, it seemed possible. Even probable.

"No, not really." It paused, as if considering the best possible answer, before responding with a slight hesitation. "I suppose you could call me an intelligent weapon. Or more specifically, an Intelligent Battle hammer. Mistress Ceras happened to use me to carry out her will against the thrice damned Iscariot in the museum, I believe."

Ceras looked at the weapon that leaned against her chair. Cautiously, she reached out and hefted the weapon, grasping it halfway up the hilt, noticing as she did that the head was glowing a soft blue but not really casting any light. She grasped it in her right hand, gun leveled with her left.

"Explain, or Major Ceras here is going to shatter you into a million little pieces."

"My my." The hammer sounded a bit rankled, as if its dignity had been upset. It was an attitude that was, by and large, completely out of place given the blunt, heavy-handed and perhaps inelegant nature of the weapon. Not to mention it was a weapon, for hells sake. It continued on nevertheless. "Such threats. Regardless, I do believe I understand your position; with what I know and the things I have seen, I would be wary of such magiks as well. But I can assure you I mean neither you, nor Mistress Ceras any harm."

"And we just take that at face value, and listen to what you have to say?" Integra fixed the hammer with piercing glare.

The air around the weapon seemed to drop a few degrees and waver, as if it was sympathizing with the hammer, which itself seemed to shake under the woman's gaze.

"Ah huh. I see. It . . . I understand where you are coming from. As I said, wise of you to be wary. But . . . if you would stop glaring at me, I shall lay my cards on the table. Then you can judge for yourself. After all, what harm is their in listening?"

Integra nodded for the weapon to continue, though Ceras didn't waver in her aim.

"Centuries ago, I was a guard in the service of the Three Judges, a council of entities that ruled a rather widespread and loosely organized shadow empire. Within their domain, they insured that certain things were maintained and certain threats were held back. They cared little for regional or political boundaries, and did not interact with the normal rulers of a territory. Rather, they governed the denizens of the night."

"A council of Vampires?"

The hammer seemed to shake imperceptibly. "No, though one of them was a vampire, I suppose. Another seat was filled by a Lich Lord, and another still by a human daemon hunter. The daemon hunter's seat was rotational and passed down between successive generations within the family, mind you, since they lacked the longevity of their compatriots."

"Now, I know enough of your time to know that such a council might seem unlikely, but it was beneficial to all involved. Within the territory of the Judges, supernatural activity was controlled and kept to a minimum. Demons, undead, all manner of what you would deem paranormal entities were held at bay by the Judges and their forces. At the time, it was necessary for survival. Though the arts have been lost over the centuries since, there was an era when witchcraft, sorcery, and pure zeal were not insignificant threats to the power of any being, living or dead. You will remember the crusades; not all of it was fueled by religious fervor and a lust for power. There were, embroiled in the mess, a great many uncouth beings."

Ceras shifted her gaze towards Integra, her expression puzzled, obviously awaiting a command.

"Set . . . him . . . down, Major. I am not entirely unfamiliar with the period he is referring to."

Before Ceras could do so, however, the hammer spoke again. "No, please, I prefer to be upright when talking. And, technically, I am an 'it'. A conjured intelligence, I am not actually of a gender."

Ceras holstered her gun, but continued to hold the weapon aloft.

"Ah, yes then. Ahem." The sheer oddity of a hammer clearing its throat was not lost on its audience, but comment was withheld none the less.

"The book you have there contains the record of the Legion of Righteous Order, a Crusade army under the Jurisdiction of the Order Iscariot, founded and lost at the end of the Crusades."

"Lost?" Ceras questioned.

"The Commander of the army, Paladin General Sigsmund, was the proto-regenerator of the Iscariot. He, along with his army, was thought to have fallen victim to the Sahara desert on a march to the River Nile. Until recently, the Iscariot believed this. My former lords, however, have always known different. The Paladin General was a thoroughly insane, power mad creature. Seemingly a Zealot to the cause of the Church, he simply reveled in bloodshed. The Legion he was given to command became a sacrifice for his power."

"You see, Sigsmund led them into the desert to die deliberately; with each soldier that fell dead, their souls became forfeit to the darker magiks he had wrought. My former masters intervened prior to the completion of the ritual, however, and disrupted the process before Sigsmund could ascend.

"Ascend?"

"Sigsmund was attempting to recreate himself as lich."

"A . . . a lich? They exist!" Integra's eyes went wide. She had heard stories about liches, but assumed they were just that, stories. The powerful ones . . . the strong ones . . even the Ancient Vampires were said to have kept their distance.

The hammed nodded imperceptibly from Ceras's hand. "Yes, though the legends vary from culture to culture. As the Council defined a lich, they were essentially undead warriors or spell casters that had sealed their souls away, thus removing both the threat of final death as well as the reality of full life. Their bodies act as a sort of physical anchor; if destroyed, they remanifest after a period of a week unless their souls are found and destroyed as well."

"Why is the Iscariot looking for this book?"

"The book was scribed by the Heretic Priest Zul'Eraf, a worshipper of a rather interesting offshoot of the Cult of Seven Deaths. How he got the information, we may never know. But, it records the final resting place of Sigsmund, where my masters interrupted his final ritual."

"What is the danger in finding it?"

"When my masters defeated Sigsmund, they did so by ripping his physical body asunder. In a last ditch effort to save himself, the blasphemous creature spread his spirit among the sands; thousands of individual grains each contained a small bit of his being. Though we attempted to destroy the sands, it is quite possible that we missed one or two, and that Sigsmund's being may still lurk in the area as a result. Deprived of a complete ritual, he could not remanifest himself; however, this book contains the necessary information to form a new shell for him to inhabit, should he somehow still survive. Zul'Eraf apparently had some interest in resurrecting Sigsmund, but lacked the appropriate tools. Several relics of a holy nature would have to be presented in order to create the appropriate setting for his recreation. Unfortunately, Zul'Eraf was a canny fellow, and portrayed Sigsmund as a sleeping champion, rather than the base heretic he was. As such, the idiots of the Iscariot would have little qualm attempting to revive him, until it would be far to late."

Integra sat down, and motioned for Ceras to holster her gun and release the hammer. As she moved to set it down, it instead hovered lightly in the air, the head at shoulder level with the two women.

The Lady Hellsing's mind ran wild. She hadn't expected anything like this. More freaks, maybe territory wars with the Iscariot, but never something on this level. Especially not so soon after Incognito.

"It would seem that you, at least, have a promising story. At the very least, we cannot afford to ignore your warnings. We will move to confirm it, and should it prove true, we will gladly offer you whatever you desire, within reason, in return for your information." Integra said, leaning over the desk slightly.

"I guarantee you, Madam. You will not find my account lacking. As for payment, I require none. This is, among other things, what I was forged for. Although, I would appreciate it if you would allow me to remain your will embodied, Mistress Victoria. Few have I seen display your dedication, since I was first wielded by Lord Verax, neigh on five centuries previous. Long has it been my wish to serve under one such as you, my lady."

The vampire sweat dropped, and intelligently stuttered "Eeeh? Wha . . . wait . . . what?"

"You have displayed great dedication to the cause of order in the time I have known you, and I have long lain dormant. I swear now my oath of fealty unto thee; my life and my service are forfeit to you." The voice was sincere, and humble. The day just kept getting odder.

The young woman could do little more than stare wide eyed at the weapon, rendered completely speechless. This was something she had never expected. Never. Ever.

Integra, however, found her subordinates look not a little amusing, and the possibilities portrayed by the situation not without possible benefits. Beings like the Nox Praetor, and in truth, the Council of Judges, were known to her, in a fashion; the Hellsing library contained a few treaties on the subject, though she had initially written them off as idle fantasy, the dreams of a utopianistic scribe. Self regulating vampires and creatures of the night . . . certainly, a joke.

Or so she had thought. Proof was now staring her in the face. Or swearing an oath of loyalty to her chief officer on metaphysical bended knee.

"Major, I suggest you accept. Nox Praetor would undoubtedly be of great value to our operation, and to you yourself."

The vampire looked open mouthed between the slightly bent over, now free hovering battle hammer, and her superior. He jaw worked open and closed a few times, before she found her voice.

"Umm . . . sure?"

"Ahh! You won't regret it, Mistress! In fact, I believe I can be of assistance immediately! Allow me to demonstrate, these techniques were of interest to my previous . . ."

Ceras turned a helpless look to her commander, over the now enthusiastic, fast talking, and self levitating hammer.

Integra smirked. "Good day, Major. I will be retiring now. Take care of your new . . . servant."

And with that, the Lady knight rose and excused herself, the chatting of the weapon only fading out as she climbed the stairs to her chambers.

SSSSSSSSSScene ChangeEEEEEEEEEEEE

Two days later, Integra sighed, a half empty bottle of whiskey on her desk, and a stack of books 3 feet high on the floor next to it.

The hammer, for all the surrealness of the conversation, all signs pointed towards the verification of its story. Though there was precious little on Zul'Eraf, or the Cult of Seven Deaths, numerous references to both Sigsmund and the Three Judges were littered throughout the ancient tomes.

It did not please her. Not one bit. The fact that she hadn't any idea what to do next pleased her even less.

Burn the book? A likely possibility. Though there was probably another copy, somewhere. And even if their weren't, the tome would eventually be found. Now, or a hundred years from now, the threat remained.

So that was out. She had already sent Walter to alert the heads of the Round Table. This was going to take more than the range of Hellsing to deal with.

When it came down to it, sticking the their head in the sand and hoping the Iscariot never figures out the location was not an option. Which left seeking out and destroying Sigsmund.

Idly, she sighed, and hoped her Major was getting along better than she was, at the moment. Though she rather doubted that, given how much Nox Praetor seemed to like to talk. A gregarious implement of war, if she ever saw one.

The week just kept getting more and more surreal.

SSSSSSSSSScene ChangeEEEEEEEEEEEE

"So . . . why are we here again?" Ceras asked as she ghosted up to the wall, crouching low to the ground.

Praetor trembled slightly in his its rear harness, a motion Ceras had learned over the past couple of days was its form of a sigh.

"Training, Mistress. As I have said, while you are undoubtedly a powerful creature, you are not up to your full potential."

Ceras sighed in return as she crouched, legs coiling beneath her only to be released in a fury of action.

She cleared the wall easily, and before whispering to the companion strapped to her back.

"And as I told you, don't call me Mistress. Ceras, or Major. Not Mistress."

It had been a long two days for the fledgling, that had been most certain. After the initial declaration of loyalty, the hammer had chattered almost non stop, about topics ranging far and wide. Only sealing herself in her coffin seemed to shut Praetor up, and even then, peace was not something that came easy to her mind, quiet or no.

Part of it, she would be the first to admit, was sheer restless pride.

'Major,' she had thought, eyes staring happily into her cherry wood ceiling, 'I'm Major Victoria now.'

Which, of course, led to other, somewhat less outright enjoyable thoughts. Past comrades, past commanders. Now she was to become the Field commander of Hellsing's paramilitary forces, to step into the boots previously worn by Fergeson. The ones to which Galaice had aspired to. They were large boots to fill, and it was a task which she faced with a degree of trepidation.

As it was, however, all but emergency operations had been suspended for the next two weeks, as Integra flexed her newfound momentary and reinstated political powers, calling up candidates and re-equipping and restocking the various cupboards, pantries, coffers, armories, and ammo boxes of the Hellsing institution. Not to mention researching this new threat.

Even Hellsing Hall itself was receiving an . . . upgrade. The masonry walls around the building were being etched with runes of warding and then being painted over to hide them from the general public and remote gun turrets sporting .50 BMG rounds were now set at key positions on the roof to cover the main thoroughfares of the grounds, set to identify, track, and terminate creatures with body temperatures lower than 60 degrees. In an emergency, they could be manual controlled by remote, or crewed. Ceras herself had to be given a special identifier badge to keep the guns from locking onto her. The wards, when finished, would have to be attuned to her before activated, lest they force her from the grounds as well as any would be attackers.

There would never be another episode like the Valentino brothers.

Already, 60 new soldiers were scheduled for her review at the end of the two weeks. Hellsing was well on its way to regaining its full force and then some.

But that was still a fortnight away. In the meantime, Ceras found herself with precious little to do. Her men were on off time, or were helping where they could in the re-establishment; she was herself unable to do much of the more basic work as it took place during the day, and Integra was reluctant to expose her too much to the public at large, as well as possible recruits at that point.

Which brings us back to the scene of Ceras slipping over a massive stone wall, dropping lightly to her feet, and stalking quietly passed a sleeping . . . aardvark. The London Zoo had been built with the idea of keeping animals inside foremost in mind, and not vampires out.

"So, Mistress," the Hammer continued, either ignoring her request or being suitably absent minded, "Have you decided on a creature yet?"

The vampire nodded, boots quietly clicking on the stone walk, winding her way past a display of tropical birds.

"Yes. But are you sure . . ."

"Quite sure. I was responsible for the training of no less than three vampires and two daemon hunters over the centuries in the service of my former lords. The process of taking a familiar is quite necessary, as it provides the basis for further development. It should be relatively painless for one of your skill, as well. Tell me, what have you selected?"

"Two. Two things."

"Cats?"

Ceras shook her head. "No. I'm no kitten."

She paused, gazing into a display.

Praetor gave a whistle of appreciation at the creature beyond. "Ah. A unique choice."

Ceras nodded, before jumping lightly over the barrier, and into the habitat of the Ursus Actos Horriblus.

In the surrounding neighborhood, people would wonder what exactly was producing the roars of combat. In the morning, when the Polar Bear exhibit, as well as the North American Grizzly habitat, was found empty, even more questions would be raised. In the end, though, like so many other things surrounding Hellsing, the public would never know the truth. Things were better that way.

Author's notes -  
Ah, yet another completed chapter. A long delay between, but as I promised, it is continued. I will confess, this chapter is a bit different than I intended, and was rushed, but I forced it through to try and get my writing groove back. So if it seems a bit traumatized, apologies. Also, apologies for the lack of review responses, though I thank all those that choose to do so. It helps to keep me going.

Checked out the latest Hellsing Manga, in which Ceras becomes a major badass. Huh. This little story now decidedly follows the Anime series.


	9. Order: Ascendent

Singularity : Order Nine:  
Ascendant

* * *

"Ladies and gentlemen, select your targets, and fire at will."

14 safeties snapped off. 14 triggers were pulled.

Considerably more ammunition was expended, then abruptly halted with a single raised hand.

23 ghouls hit the pavement. Nine windows shattered.

Seven troopers leapt over three separate police blockades, 14 boots hitting blacktop and cobblestone, traversing the fifty meters to the front door.

At ten meters from the entrance, the black haired trooper leading the charge racked the slide to his riot gun. At eight the solid slug left the breech, buckling the steel and wood egress point and ripping it part as if it were no more than tinfoil. It swung loosely on its hinges before the riot gun soldier deftly sidestepped to allow his commanding officer to take point. Said woman proceeded to reach the door and subsequently level it with a shoulder charge, dozing its remains aside before diving into a roll.

She came up into a crouch firing from the hip, her auto shotgun's drum magazine already having cycled twice. Her teammates entered behind her and secured the room adding their own small arms to the mix. Five more ghouls crumpled, coagulated blood refusing to leak from massive rents in flesh and bone.

Twenty seconds later, First Squad, First Platoon, Hellsing Division, had locked down the house's first floor.

"Command, this is Red Eyes. Ground is clear, sounds coming from the second. Watch the rooftops."

"Acknowledged, Red Eyes. Snipers are in position."

Satisfied with the reply, and assured that the freeks wouldn't be making it out via the roof, Ceras made a curt gesture with her hand. At the signal, two of the squad broke off, following her to the base of the stairs, FP-9s pointed up and covering the second floor landing, even as she placed a foot on the first step.

Major Ceras Victoria came to a complete stop at that point.

Both of troopers shot a glance at the Major, who shook her head.

No. They weren't going up after them.

But that didn't mean the two freeks in question were going to be getting away.

Or even left alive for that much longer.

The young midan closed her eyes, before stretching her hands out in front of her, and extending her will.

The Shadows elongated, her own stretching out before her, shimmering and quaking. The air crackled and the scent of ozone flared only to be rapidly overtaken by the smell of fire. Then Brimstone.

Two sets of eyes opened peering back at Ceras from her own shadow, deep crimson and bright, sickly green meeting.

Outside the house Hellsing troopers jumped at the sounds that seemed to shake the building itself. Massive, world rending roars, bestial cries of rage and primal fury.

A second later, one freak was hurled backwards through a second floor wall. Two snipers zero'd in on the falling body, and one of them managed a clean shot through the head, ashing it before it hit the concrete.

The other never appeared, but a loud scream, ending abruptly, seemed to indicate the remaining freeks fate.

15 soldiers turned to look at a female knight and her retainer.

"House is secured, Command." Sergeant Stasi.

Integra nodded, switching her band to be broadcast through all the soldiers' radio sets before replying into her own com.

"Understood. What . . . was that noise?"

"Under control, sir. Allies. The Major's . . . new pets."

* * *

"Am I to understand, Major, that you have successfully acquired your own pack of shadow mastiffs?"

Ceras squeezed her eyes shut, mouth opening wide in a chagrined smile, reaching back to scratch the back of her head. She had been hoping to delay this conversation for a bit, or at least was hoping Integra wouldn't press the issue. Using her familiars during the last raid had been a necessity: the conflict was controlled and isolated, with little danger. An ideal test situation for her companions, or so Praetor had convinced her. Unfortunately, they had been far louder than she had anticipated.

She had hoped to keep them hidden. Now, it appeared, that was no longer an option.

"Ehhh . . . sort of? But, I needed to inform you that some of the new trainees have arrived early, and . . ." Ceras' voice died off, under the knight's glare.

Integra's eye twitched, from where she sat behind her desk, backlit as she was by ambient glow of the setting sun, diffused through her curtains.

"Sort of, Ceras? You either have familiars now, or you don't. Do not try and change the subject. And do NOT think of phasing through a wall, like your damned master. I will NOT have another of my subordinates getting into the habit of leaving just because they don't feel like answering questions."

"What she means is, Sir Integra, is that while she has a familiar . . . or familiars, as is the proper distinction in this case, they are not wolves as apparently belonged to her predecessor." Praetor piped up from his position on Ceras's back, slightly pitched voice a tad muffled by the vampires body.

Integra let out a controlled sigh. "Fine. Cats, bats, bloody armadillos! What animals! Quit being so damn obtuse!"

Ceras almost flinched at Integra's visibly raising ire, before practically squeaking an answer. "Bears."

"Bears?"

"Grizzly and Polar, to be specific, Lady Integra." Praetor again provided an altogether too cheery answer.

Integra sighed, and collapsed into her chair, the fledgling's evasiveness suddenly falling into place. "I see. I take it this has something to do with the disturbance at the London Zoo a few nights ago. And I assume that is why you were hesitant to tell me."

"Umm . . . yes?"

The Lady Knight shook her head. "I was unaware that you had to actually take your familiars, as it were. You had to kill them?"

Ceras shook her head. "Not . . . exactly. I beat them into submission, then made a pledge pact with them. It sorta kills them, sorta not. They aren't real undead, like I am, but they aren't really . . . real . . . period, anymore. I guess they best way to explain it would be that they are now . . . independent aspects of, ummm, me."

"What my Mistress means to say," Praetor began, "is that the Bears are now avatars of her will. They are embodiments of her noble wrath, tributes to her boundless strength, monuments of . . ."

"Shut up, Praetor!" Ceras barked out, flushing red before yanking the hammer violently off her back harness and stuffing the head of the weapon into a half full camo pack that rested at her feet, the haft pointing out and upwards at an angle. The damn hammer, for all its intelligence and sound guidance, was beginning to get annoying in the extreme. With its excessive mannerisms and flowery tongue, Ceras was convinced that it had missed its calling as an intelligent, magical salad fork, or some other equally ostentatious and frivolous peace of flatware foppery.

"Amhh, 'es Miftres. Mph apomophies." Came the slightly muffled voice.

Integra cracked a tired small at the occurrence. "You don't take complements well, do you, Ceras?"

"I'm sorry, sir, I didn't mean to overstep my bounds. With you back, I'm just not sure what I'm supposed to do. I mean, you handle things much better than I . . ."

" Relax, Major. While I wish you had informed me of your excursion before you actually did it, I find no real fault with what you did. Your Master has done far worse."

"You don't? He did?"

"He did. Remind me to tell you about the Blacktap Distillery raid someday. A ghost of a grin flittered across her face at the memory, before her face tightened and she carried on. "Regardless, your actions were necessary, if unorthodox and unapproved. You need to understand this, Major, and understand it well. As it stands currently, after myself and Walter, YOU are the ranking officer of the Hellsing Organization. Whether I want to or not, I trust your judgment. By promoting you, I stated this officially. Personally, I believe this to be true, as well. But you need to be more decisive. I know you organized everything on your own in my absence, planning raids and the like. I need you to do that now."

"I . . . I see."

"I'm not entirely sure you do, Major . . . Victoria," The knight switched her form of address, starling the vampire to attention. "Fergeson held your position before this. He was ultimately my subordinate. But he was also my advisor, and if not a friend, a . . . comrade. I need you to fill that role. My own decisions are not infallible, and opinions of my men are welcome. Your dedication and initiative during my imprisonment was admirable, and I need you to continue displaying that, without fear or embarrassment now. Your growth as a vampire necessitates that, if not your role as a commanding officer. I believe that even if you are not now fully capable, you will shortly become so. I have placed a large portion of the success of this organization in your hands Victoria. You have my faith. Will you make me regret it?"

The response was immediate, and heartfelt.

"No, Sir Hellsing!"

Integra gave a confident smirk. "I didn't think so, Victoria. Now, about the new recruits . . ."

* * *

The magiks invoked by the Order of the Iscariot, numerous and terrible, were curious things.

They worked for healing, for violence, for weal and woe. They worked on the living, the dead, the dying and the damned. They are rather indiscriminate weapons that could be wielded for good or evil, but not, the scriptures noted, were they themselves innately beneficent or malevolent.

Magik was simply a sword, a tool, infused with the intent of the wielder, and no more heretical than the man, woman, or beast that wielded it. So was quoted in the Litany of Hunters, chapter 4, verse 15. A remarkably pragmatic approach given the Order to which the doctrine belonged.

Then again given that said Order so often followed the 'means be damned, its all about the ends' school of existential persecution, maybe not so far off. At least they weren't overly hypocritical about this one area.

Despite the words, taught as they were to every neophyte to ever grace the Iscariot's Templum, magiks, particularly the ones recently and presently invoked, unnerved Paladin Eklesia to no end. A spell dating back to the crusades, a holy wyrd composed by Sigsmund himself that summoned the spirits of departed comrades back to smite the heretic and blasphemer, reanimating their immortal souls to serve, and perhaps more. The spell had been seldom used, and was only recently rediscovered amidst the archives of the Temple keep.

A man with less faith would call it blasphemy. A blind man might call it necromancy.

But its use was deemed necessary to retrieve the Tome from the cursed Protestants. Divine scrying had managed to track the tome to a well guarded, if small research facility in the country. Too many soldiers for three paladins to deal with on their own.

And so across the misty moors, down the two lane road in that far off end of England, the holy warriors lead a small host of spectral warriors, ghostly armor clanking, leather squeaking, swords at the ready.

Watchtower lights flared to life, even as startled MPs un-slung rifles and began cracking away.

Gunfire. Cursing. Screams. Engines roaring to life, communications towers calling for back up. One man gunning an armored SUV and plowing through the semisolid wraith ranks, knocking their bodies apart and crushing ghostly armor. A weapons squad unloading with a SAW, the massive cannon kicking with recoil even before its tripod had hit the dirt. A few of the overrun soldiers even clubbing and striking against the blessed wraiths with gun stocks and combat knives, after their positions had been overrun. A Corporal, attempting to drag a wounded man to safety, his subordinates left leg severed by ghostly fire. Heroism was on plain display that night, the valiant battle captured and preserved on digital film from a dozen and two different cameras. In the end, that film, that bit of digital immortality, was all that remained to share such tales of defiance. The wraiths took no prisoners. The priests gave no mercy.

In the end, silence fell. In the end, the Iscariot had taken the prize.

But, really, it wasn't the end. It was a horrible, malignant, beginning.

* * *

"Calm down, ya bastards! Few words, then the bar opens!"

Calming a group of soldiers on a day pass is normally not an easy thing to accomplish. Even more so when said soldiers have just spent the past week fighting the minions of undeath to a standstill. Even more so when the location of said unit is a favored bar.

Despite the impressive build up, the soldiers of Ceras' Strikers, the 26 surviving veterans of Incognito and Hellsing's dissolution, quieted up in quickly and respectfully, the dull clank of glasses, the raucous laughter and jokes, the general din of a good time fading into silence. A credit to their training and discipline.

Or, it was because the free bar wasn't free until Stasi said it was. Either or.

The Backroom, so called, was an interesting little establishment. It had a long history of hosting to those in service to King and Country, such as it were. Black and white photographs of RAF servicemen, British and American Allied Infantry, and even SAS lined one wall. Another wall was graced by pictures of police officers, with a few of the checkered caps and nightsticks and trinkets of office and trade signed by notable men and women. It was a bar used to the oddities of those who spent their lives in service, wholly owned and operated by the same family through multiple generations.

The bartenders here knew how to keep a secret. SAS missions had been plotted on the counters. Officers of the law had told their stories on the stools. Returning and departing infantry had poured their hearts out to a generation of barkeeps. And now Hellsing had hijacked it for their own personal celebration.

A wolf whistle split the silenced room, followed by a few catcalls and good natured cheering as Stasi yielded the impromptu stage, a low table, to the Ceras.

"Alright Major! Take it off!"

Laughter rippled through the assembled group.

Flushing red, much to the amusement of her gathered forces, Victoria glared at Stasi.

"I thought you said the bar hadn't been opened yet."

The big man grinned. "I did. Some of em showed up plastered anyway."

Rolling her eyes, at him, she turned her gaze back to the crowd. "Dream on, Emerson. You wouldn't know what to do if I did!" she bit back, her face flushing a deeper shade despite her boldness.

Another ripple of laughter, as the soldier in question's jaw dropped and his friends ribbed him.

"Seriously, though. We're here to celebrate both our continued service to Hellsing, and to ring in all the damn greenies we're gonna have to train up. They arrive en mass tomorrow, and the lot of us are gonna be mostly broken up, at least for awhile. Need to spread our experience around. Or at least our stubborn refusal to let odds and averages get a word in edgewise."

"Here here!" one cried out, hoisting a bottle of something in the air.

Ceras grinned through the smokey hazy, taking in her troops one by one, Integra's little discussion running through her head as she did so. She wasn't just a Major. She was trusted. An officer. A . . . well, in time, hopefully, a friend. Someone who's judgment could be trusted and seen through to the end.

And in front of her, around her, grinning, leering, drinking and shouting, were the men and women who had made her world possible. The men and women who had stood, shoulder to shoulder, trusting her despite her youth, her inexperience, and her unusual existence. The loyalty was humbling. It was time she told them.

Not in so many words, of course. It wouldn't do to break down in tears before her troopers.

"Anyway, I just wanted you guys to know, the fact that you came back, that you worked with me . . . its been my pleasure and honor to command such a dedicated unit. I can think of no better first command. We've saved lives . . . many lives, and those that have given their all to our cause have not done so in futility. We are England's guardians of the night, her shield against the nightmares. We are Hellsing, and you guys have made me proud. So tonight the drinks are on me. Ladies and gentlemen, the bar is now open!"

* * *

Despite the best efforts of the members of the Hellsing First, the night eventually ended, yielding onto the brilliant light of day. For most, it meant attempting to sleep off hangovers, waking up in odd positions, or trying to find those first awkward words to utter to the naked person beside you. Still, it beat out what the Hellsing First-First ended up doing.  
Hellsing's organization had, at Walter's suggestion, since been reorganized. A clearer chain of command was placed. Hellsing would now have no less that three platoons. Each platoon would contain 25 or so individual troopers, divided into teams of 5 or six. The First-First, then was Platoon 1, First Squad. In essence the best that Hellsing had to offer, outside of its actual 'special' operatives. Among other honors, it was Ceras's squad.  
Lackmay, Bonner, Ves, Johsten. Ceras, of course. All five were out on the fields of Hellsing manor, greeting the mid morning light. And Stasi and Revlin, from the soon to be formed Hellsing Second-First. All had been supposed to withhold from serious hard drinking the night previous, though Bonner and Revlin both looked rather green. All to be able to review the new recruits.  
It was Stasi that started things off, as he usually did when he didn't know the people or issues in question, with a belligerent bellow. "Alright, listen up! You've all passed your background checks, and the physicals. But before you become Hellsing, you need to learn exactly what you've opted to join. You've heard the stories of bogeymen and things that go bump in the night. And most of you, I'm sure, think its bullshit. And that's the damn last thing I want from my new recruits. Crapping your pants when you see the actual thing isn't going to be beneficial to you or the guy next to you. So! Attention, and look sharp! The Major is here, and she's gonna show you just WHAT it means to be a Hellsing Trooper!"

The gathered recruits, 50 odd, were a motley crew. Enlisted from all walks of military and paramilitary life, the collection of uniforms, accents, and facial scars ran an interesting gamut. At least a few mercenaries, a few SAS Uniforms, British Army regulars, even D-11 agents and a couple ex-American servicemen and women. But each had passed the initial exams, and each had at least a vague inkling of the darker side of the world. Whether it was an ex-police officer that had seen a murderer take a full clip and still manage an escape, or a professional soldier who was assaulted by apparent drugged out, mindless enemies, they all felt that there might have been something a bit off with the conventional view of the world. It was why they had been selected. It was why they had volunteered.

And now as Sergeant Stasi stepped back and Major Victoria stepped forward into the noonday sun, their inklings and feelings would be laid to a definite, if not final, rest.

Ceras surveyed her future charges, eyes drifting from uniform and squad badge to face and firearm, trying to match the persons in front of her to the files and dossiers she had gone over the night before. Honestly, she was a little nervous but it was tempered by the realization that she had already been in charge of almost 30 troopers during Integra's absence. The difference between Ceras' Strikers and this group, she told herself, was simply one of respect. Her team respected her. She just had to make this lot do the same.

'Well then,' she thought, 'time to put the fear of god into them.'

Moving from her resting point in the shade of the manor's barrier wall, Ceras adjusted her blue military cap and high collar to shield her face and neck from as much sunlight as she could, though the day was dark and threatened rain. It was a habit she had gotten into a long time ago; though the sun's rays could not turn her to dust, prolonged exposure to high concentrations of sunlight would cause great pain, and, if left in the light too long, eventual death. But simple shade, cloud cover, or even an outlandishly large, red hat, and she would be fine.

"My name is Major Ceras Victoria. You can and will call me Major. For your own sake, you will take me, this organization, and the things you are about to here seriously." Her voice came out smoothly, authoritatively. There was still a snort of disbelief.

"Feh. You expect us to believe that shit we've heard? About vampires and zombies and shit? What else do we have to look for, little girl? Leprechauns? Gnomes? Maybe an elf or two?"

Ceras rankled at the little girl comment, but held her tongue, instead leveling a red eyed glare at a man wearing a D-11 uniform, flanked on either side by two more D-11 agents, all wearing the same squad markings on their sleeves. "No. No gnomes. What's your name?"

"Che. Jaeger. D-11."

"Well, Jaeger, D-11, you should relax. You won't have to deal with Gnomes. Just things like me. Which, if you think with something above the belt, should terrify you. But let's cut this stupid verbal sparring. Give me your best goddamn shot."

Ceras unclasped her belt and webbing, handing the gear, and the attached Desert Eagles, to Stasi, idly cracking her knuckles as she waited. Praetor remained strapped to her back, mute, on threat of having the leather bindings on its hilt re-wrapped with strips of a rather puke-ish avocado green vinyl.

Apparently, the war hammer had a thing for its appearance.

Jaeger, as he so referred to himself, stepped forward, his companions offering a brief words of encouragement and knowing glances.

"Jaeger Valkov, of D-11's Special Assault division. Squad leader of Team 6, and a noted troublemaker. Refuses to serve regular police duties, as he refuses to go about unarmed. Three times reprimanded for use of excessive force. Still, commended twice for going above and beyond the call of duty. Awarded again for pulling a wounded teammate out of a drug bust gone bad, at great risk to self."

Jaeger raised an eyebrow as he reached the border of the dirt arena. "A fan of my work?"

Ceras shook her head, a tight lipped grin spreading across her face. "I was D-11 at one point in my . . . life. Your reputation as a heroic jackass was apparently well deserved. When I heard you were among the recruits, I checked up on your record. I figured if anyone was going to give me a hard time, it would be someone like you."

"Feh. Everyone's a critic . . ." The ex-cop looked down and off to his side, a smirk growing as he spoke, before lunging forward, corded muscle and sinew exploding into action. His 170+ pound frame hurtled towards the comparatively slight women in front of him, intent on putting the full weight of his motion behind his leading fist. A one hit knockout.

Or so he intended. At the last second, Ceras simply dropped into a crouch, ducking under his punch with blinding speed. Now over extended, the D-11 agent struggled to suppress his forward momentum before he stumbled over his adversary.

Ceras didn't give him the chance. Extending her legs and pushing up off the ground, the vampire angled forward, catching Jaeger in the chest with a rising shoulder charge. Jaeger's motion came to a complete stop, and then reversed entirely. And continued reversing, and elevating, until he crashed into his fellow agents a good 15 feet behind him with enough force to send all five of them to the ground like so many ten-pins.

Aside from the groaning, you could have heard a pin drop. When Ceras gave a full, toothy grin, even the moans of pain came to an abrupt halt. The elongated fangs were readily apparent.  
"My name is Ceras Victoria. I AM your CO. And, should you decide to make Hellsing your new, permanent home, you WILL be reporting to me." She stalked towards the fallen officers, idly cracking her knuckles. "You saw what I just did, and you're probably think its pretty unusual. You're right, it is strange, but not for any of the reasons likely being passed through your heads. Right now, you're thinking 'how in hell did that women, that kitten, just smash a full grown D-11 agent into the air and back 15 feet? What you should be thinking, however, is why didn't that vampire rip Jaeger's head off"  
A collective murmur or alarm and disbelief rippled through the gathered recruits.  
"I am technically dead. I have been for almost three years, since a botched hostage rescue mission in Cheddars. The Hellsing Institution, for better or worse, came to my aid. Since that time I have eliminated no less than 27 freek vampires, been party to the destruction a pureblood ancient, and off'd more ghouls, or zombies, than I care to count. They are evil, deranged, and bloodthirsty killers. Make no mistake, I am one of the exceptions that defines the rule"  
By now Ceras was standing over her beaten soon to be subordinate. Glancing down at the tangled mess of limbs she spoke, raising her head to fix the recruits with a level, even gaze.  
"In Hellsing, things of nightmares exist. We hunt them. We kill them. We ensure that England and its people are safe from beings that stalk the night. It is not pretty. It isn't glamorous. And frankly the pay kinda sucks, too, thought I'm told healthcare and retirement is good. But! Know that your service will save the lives of countless others. And that you will be supported and equipped to the nines, with everything and anything this organization can provide. If that doesn't appeal to you, or if you can't stomach what I've said, or what I AM, leave now. If you don't and continue on, you'll be lucky to end up dead. Because the alternative is ending up a ghoul slave, and possible killing your own squad mates." Turning her gaze downward once again, she extended a hand up to Jaeger. "Hellsing will look after you, if you look after it. I promise"  
Jaeger looked up at the white gloved hand hesitantly before smirking slightly and accepting it.  
"Welcome to Hellsing, Mr. Jaeger."

* * *

Author's Notes:  
Well well, yet another chapter come and gone. Hope it proved enjoyable. Next chapter sees Alucard's return, in all his toothy glory. CnC welcome, particularly on the nature of the relationship I'm trying to develop between Ceras and Integra. More will be made of this in future chapters, as well as a larger part for Praetor.

Currently looking for a pre-reader that doesn't mind my abysmally slow pace. Feel free to drop me a line via an e-mail, or check my journal or AIM account. For that matter, anyone can feel free to say hi, no matter what.

Many thanks to all who have reviewed. Someone said I made their day. Well, that comment made mine. Though I am loath to admit it, reviews motivate me. In the same way a turtle is motivated to run from a predator. I do it, but I still do it slowly.

Note to all: I will finish this story, baring severe personal issues or events. I will not lose interest in it. Part of the reason is due to my pace – I do things gradually. I seldom burn out. The other reason is I find it tragic when a story remains unfinished. I generally apply this to all stories I write except for those I state as such at the initial posting, and if I ever do discontinue a story, there will be notice, and a summary or outline of the rest of the tale.


	10. Order: Warbringer

Singularity

Order 10:Warbringer

Vicar Dolson was a man of faith. His title may have implied as much, but his congregation would have argued that it went beyond a simple honor or name. He preached, he practiced, he _was._ There was no rhetoric in his exhortations, no subtle logic or persuasion. Only faith. His followers would have said he needed nothing else to guide his flock.

It was that sense of duty, that pure minded trust, that was to make him first among the casualties. He strode forward to confront the abominations with cross raised and abjuration upon his lips, casting the creature back unto the abyss. Behind him, his citizens' levy, their makeshift weapons, their axes and torches, their shovels and bats stood firm.

The skeletal wraith, its armor a resplendent parody of rust and creaking plate, bore the once proud, now mouldering cloaks and honors of long forgotten campaigns. Its whole form reeked of death, the very ground it trod on rotting beneath its iron shod boot. There was no wind to stir its garmets, and the clouded sky failed penetrate the shadows of its visored helm, as if nature itself seemed to abhor the form.

Behind it, a mixed company of skeletal warriors and floating specters stood in rank.

Skeletal visage peering out from under iron helm, a blight encrusted arming sword gripped in a bony hand, the once knight bashed the kite shield fastened to its other arm into the holy man with sudden violence, sending him sprawling to his back.

With a paced, methodical precision, it raised its blade, and lanced it down, skewering the vicar.

To the horror of his parish, Dolson's face twisted into a rictus of agony and pain before desiccating at an unholy rate. Before their eyes his life force, his spirit seeming to be sucked into the air where it hovered, briefly floating like a will o wisp, before being drawn into one of the specters, reinforcing it and lending substance to its being. Bones materialized and creaked dryly as now solid armor rubbed against leathery flesh.

When the process came to its grisly conclusions only the skeletal mummy of the vicar remained, clad in the now rotting robes of his office. A once man who now rose and stepped slowly behind his killer, falling into the ranks of the other skeletal crusaders, joining the ones he sought to combat in life.

Soundlessly, the Wraith-knight raised his sword and pointed towards the center of the village. In jerky lockstep his forces marched in proper order at his command. First those attired in heavy plate, the two obvious lieutenants of the legion. Then the banner-man, a rather grotesque, one armed specimen hoisting an indistinguishable rotting mass of moulding green honors upon a banner pole with the name 'Mathius' picked out and somehow preserved in gold thread upon its upmost reaches. Then the company musician, who played a hollow beat upon a drum which had fallen to ruin long ago but still managed to function despite physical law.

Behind the command came the foot soldiers, some in plate, some in mail, some in quilted armor, bearing all manner of the weapons of archaic warfare, their skeletal forms moving in time to the haunting drum rhythm. Behind them the half formed, semi solid specters, awaiting the life energies needed to return them to the walking dead.

Most horrifying of all followed last. These skeletons were the ones whose mystically deteriorated clothes and gear were recognizable to the living present. British Soldiers, fellow towns people, friends, family, men and women. The recently dead, and more recently damned.

Before the host the gathered folk fled in terror, conviction and courage forgotten. The wraith-knights did not pursue, however. They did not run down the fleeing, or surge forward. They simply continued on in the direction indicated by their commander, feet rising and falling in military cadence in an inexorable march.

The town would fall, and its citizens with it. To Lord Geoffrey Mathius, it mattered little how quickly it happened. The purposeful, malevolent intelligence which remained his despite the centuries and the death and the rotting told him this, and the Wraith Knight's face twisted into a horrific, reflexive smile beneath its armored visor as his forces advanced. The military installation had fallen before his might nearly two nights ago, and now this place, too, would be grasped in his skeletal gauntlet.

VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV

The London news establishment had been, of late, running pictures of various buildings, allies, and dens of inequity with the words UNDERWORLD daubed in blood or red paint upon their being. The subsequent articles generally talked of horrible crimes, of murder and death with the occasional passing word on the Police unit, a specialist and unknown anti-terror task force that dealt with the issues. But all in all the crimes and the meaning of the UNDERWORLD phrase was never explained. That was left to the editorial pages, to the tabloids, to the page three girls and the crazies to speculate on.

Which isn't to say no one asked. Police Chiefs on down voiced the question, what group is it? Who's its leader? Where can we find it? In the end, the got no answers, because it was the wrong question they were asking.

UNDERWORLD was not a person. It wasn't an object or a location. And it was definitely not a group. It was, if one had to attempt to classify it, might aptly be described as a feedback loop gone mad. At one time, it was something more, something purposeful.

That purpose was now at the bottom of the Hong Kong Harbor, tucked away in the slowly decomposing skull of a would-be bio-engineer come entrepreneur who sought an untold fortune in the application of freek chips to everyday life; a deathless, yet dead, population might well have become the next chic trend had it not been for the MI-6 stamped 9 mm round resting firmly in his brain pan.

But while MI-6 got the brains of the operation, and the central production facility for the chips, they missed at least a few things. For starters, the fact that the London based distribution and testing center was also capable of producing a dozen or so of the chips per week.

Originally, the London faculty had been used as a research lab, where the underclass, the unseen and the unmissed of the great metropolis could be whisked away to and subsequently fitted with the chip, observed, and then released or eliminated. Eventually, more widespread testing was begun, by releasing small numbers of the chips to various unsavory characters and organizations. Such was the case with the Valentine brothers, and Bonny and Clyde. To the criminals of England, the distributors became known as UNDERWORLD.

All well and good, until as mentioned before, MI-6 stopped the main production and funding center in Hong Kong. Then, the assembled technicians at UNDERWORLD found themselves in a rather sticky predicament. No funding, but a lucrative field. No guidance, no master plan, but a chance to make an obscene amount of cash by catering to the darker side of society.

The chips created a demand. Chips were produced. Freeks were made. The impressive nature of freeks created a demand for even more chips. And so Underworld would continue, even in the absence of a true goal.

And as Underworld did so, Hellsing picked apart their successes, bit by bit, and gradually closed in on their operation. Freeks would have been a thing of the past months ago, had it not been for Incognito's disruption of the Hellsing Institution and MI-6's investigation. The general balls up that followed pushed it to the back of everyone's mind, and even once re-established, Hellsing was too busy dealing with the back log of built up Freeks, and with the Iscariot, to step back and consider the bigger picture.

Why Incognito? A question that should have been asked, but floundered in the face of more day to day concerns. Where had he come from and what were his ties, if any, to the Freek production? Questions that needed to be answered were never asked, or even considered.

If they had been given thought, had such notions alighted upon the mind of one of the Knights, it likely would have made little difference. The good and great of England's protectors were seven deaths to few to catch the mastermind behind the string of events. To him, UNDERWORLD had a purpose, though it was not UNDERWORLD's purpose.

Why UNDERWORLD? For confusion, for death, and for the return of a creature of true darkness. UNDERWORLD, as large as its scale is, is a cog in an even larger machine. And its end product would be far, far worse, than anything UNDERWORLD had ever produced.

VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV

"You're telling me that after all the work my people went through, that the damned Iscariot STILL managed to get the book?"

The targeted officer shifted uncomfortably, the razor's edge in Integra's question barely concealed. A bad day made worse. That's what this was.

"I ahh . . . I assure you, Sir Integra, that it isn't that simple. The research facility was unlisted and remote, the transfer from Hellsing Manor done in a secure fashion, and the staff was all trained in basic combat doctrine in addition to a full platoon garrison. The base itself was fortified, with the main approaches covered by M2 machine gun hardpoints, which, at your request, every fifth round was blessed and silver. There should have been no way anyone, even this Iscariot force you speak of, should have been able to take it."

"But they did, did they not, Lt. Colonel?"

The rapidly stressing officer turned to look at the new speaker, whose curious red eyes seemed to lock him in place from where she stood just to the side, and slightly behind the Knight. Merrick had originally taken the other women to be the Lady Knight's assistant, but such notions were quickly being disabused as he took her measure. The uniform she wore screamed paramilitary to his practiced eye, and the large caliber pistols tucked neatly in rear draw and hip holsters did little to calm him. Nor did the Rank bars, the Major's chevrons, worn on her arm.

He was a Lieutenant Commander in the British Regular Service. Higher, by measure, than a major. He shifted uncomfortably, boots leaving marks in the deep carpet of the office.

This wasn't the regular British service, and the woman, no women, in front of him, were anything but regular.

"Major, umm . . . " he paused, and realized he didn't know the strange woman's name.

"Victoria," came the curt reply.

"Major Victoria. That . . . is the unfortunate truth. I cannot deny it, but my men were my men. I trained with them, fought with them, and assigned Derrick's Platoon to the station because I felt he was the perfect candidate for the job. But no force should have been able to breach the defenses, at least without an armored contingent, of which there was no indication. I . . . I cannot understand how this could have happened."

The strawberry blond nodded, but did not answer, tilting her head slightly to shift her gaze towards Integra's profile, not once shifting out of parade rest.

" Lieutenant Commander Merick, I am to understand that no formal communications were made from the platoon during the attack?" Integra noticed the gesture, and proceeded on with her own line of questioning.

The officer nodded. "The hardlines were cut, and coms were jammed. We noticed the communication breakdown, and command sent runners. By the time we got there . . ."

Integral nodded from across her desk at the standing officer. "When you arrived, you found your men dead. I can sympathize. You had no way of knowing what you were up against. Given what I know of the situation, you can not be held at fault. That chiefly lies with MI-6, who decided to take the book from us in the first place."

"If I may, sir, what exactly was it? The book, I mean." Merick voiced, eyes not quite looking at the ground, but certainly focused on some fascinating knick knack on the Knight's desk.

Integra paused. "Something of extreme value to national security. I can't say more."

"I see, sir. But, my men . . . when I found them, they were . . . ," he paused, then looked up to meet her gaze, "desiccated, dead, or shredded. Hundreds of shells fired, and not an enemy body. No enemy tire treads, no massed boot prints of an enemy. And those were the bodies we found. A quarter of them were missing in their entirety, no corpses at all. I know, I'm not cleared sir, but please . . . they were my men, they . . ."

"That's enough, Commander."

Regaining his mental footing, Merick gave a quick salute. "Sir. Yes, sir. My apologies."

"Step outside , Commander, and await my summons. I need to discuss things with Major Victoria."

The soldier saluted, before stepping smartly out the door, though his face was still downcast. As the door clicked closed, Integra turned to her companion.

"Ceras. You've reviewed his file?"

"Sir. Dedicated and as decorated as can be for the amount of action he's seen, or so Stasi told me."

"You asked Stasi to look it over as well?" A hint of something in the knights voice. Disapproval? Surprise? Both?

It made no difference to the vampire's answer. "It made sense, sir. He spent time in service, and would be a better judge." There was no hesitation in the voice as she replied.

"Good." Whether Integra was commenting on the man's service record, or Ceras's initiative, neither commander nor soldier was entirely sure. "And your opinions?"

"He'd make an admirable officer. His resume is pretty much what we'd need in a commander, and the profile he's got fits our bill."

"Profile?"

"Stasi and I cooked it u . . .I mean, developed it the other day. With the recruiting we've been doing, we've actually had a couple of the support guys going over files and comparing common attributes, than cross referencing the bullet points with files of previous successful soldiers that we have on record. In short, a rundown of desirable qualities in a Hellsing trooper."

Integra smirked "And what, dear Victoria, makes a good Hellsing trooper?"

"A distinct disregard for authority, large red floppy hats, and the ability to stick ones head in and out of walls at inopportune and socially inconvenient times." Ceras deadpanned.

Integra blinked and looked at her subordinates stoic expression before snorting in a restrained chuckle.

"In all seriousness, though, we've found that the most effective soldiers are the ones that have lost someone or something important to a supernatural occurrence. Bonus points are added to those who have prior training, reasonable amounts of skepticism, and relative ingenuity. Merrick has three of those traits, and he lost his men in the line of duty. Fergeson lost his command in the War to Nazi experimentation. Galaice's partner was killed by a pack of ghouls while investigating homeless disappearances in the underground." Ceras explained.

"And a Major lost her squad in an ill advised hostage rescue."

Ceras hesitated, then nodded, accepting the unspoken compliment.

"Yes, that about sums it up. I'd recommend him."

"Very well." Integra leaned forward and depressed a button on her desk intercom. "Walter. Have Lt. Merrick escorted to the briefing room, and ask Sergeant Stasi to brief him and invite him into our organization. Demotion to Lieutenant, command of Hellsing 3rd Platoon."

"Of Course, Lady Integra."

"Afterwards, meet me in the subsection. We need to release Alucard."

She closed the channel, looking up at the Major, trying to gauge her reaction. Now in front of her, standing in an easy posture, the fledgling vampire seemed suddenly ill at ease, her jaw less set, eyes less steady. Certainly less so than she had been a moment ago, while grilling the erstwhile officer.

"Alucard? . . . I mean, Sir?"

Integra nodded. "I received authorization awhile ago, but wanted to hold off until we had the situation stabilized. He's a wild card at the best of times."

Ceras squirmed slightly, both at the thought of her Master's return, and because of the informal way Integra was speaking.

"Problems, Ceras?"

"No, Lady Integra. But when he returns, he and I will have to have a discussion. Of sorts. Its not something I was looking forward to." She looked off to the side as she spoke, though her voice was firm, if hesitant.

"I have full faith that you'll work it out, Ceras. You have my sympathies however, he can be a real bastard."

"Si . . .sir?"

"Well, he can." She replied, almost petulantly. "Give a vampire an inch, and he takes a damn mile . . ." she trailed off muttering, ignoring the pensive look on her subordinates face.

"And . . . me sir?" The voice was hesitant, but anything but meek.

Integra paused, mid mutter. "You, Ceras?"

"You've stopped referring to me as Sergeant, or even Major, Lady Integra. What exactly is my standing with you? A trump card like Alucard, or a soldier of the line, like Galaice and Fergeson?"

"Jesus, Ceras. It was a joke." She paused. "But in answer, you're neither, I think."

"Neither?" The puzzlement was clear in Ceras' voice.

"Neither. Both. Whatever. You've proven yourself competent in my absence, and exceeded my expectations since my return. I need an advisor that can work both realms, with the troops, and with the Iscariot and greater undead. We lost so many last time because we didn't employ either aspect of our force to the fullest. As such, I think I would rather you be a, well, an advisor rather than a straight out subordinate, someone who might help me troubleshoot events that I might not otherwise see. You are in a unique position Ceras, being more intimately associated with the rank and file and the creatures of the night than either myself, Alucard, or Walter. That is a viewpoint I need you to present. Had I realized that before, I might have seen Hellsing's deficiencies before the Incognito massacre showed them to me the hard way."

"Sir?"

"Integra, please. And no more questions. I need to prepare to release Him. In the meantime go and see how the recruits are handling training and inform Merick of his proposed transfer. Then have Stasi interview him."

Ceras nodded, and saluted, still a little shaken by what she had just heard. It was a bit much to process. "Yes, si . . . Integra.."

"And send off a squad or two to recon the battle site; MI-6 supposedly has the digital security footage, but since they won't release it yet, I'd like to try and find out what I can in the meantime."

"Right. I'll send out Sergeant Case's squad, they're veteran enough to handle anything, or at least to know when to call for help and hold back."

A pause.

"Now, Victoria."

"Ah! Sorry, si . . . Integra!"

Spinning on her heel the confused but altogether satisfied officer left the room, leaving her superior to figure out just how it would be best to pull centuries old force of nature off the reserve list and back into the game.

VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV

"Bother Andersong.."

"Father Maxwell. Peace be with you."

"And you, my son. You have the item?"

Reaching into the folds of his jacket, the Paladin produced the canvas wrapped tome, handing over to the priest, whose eyes lit up as he reached for it, the smaller man's body almost seeming to vibrate with anticipation.

"Were there problems in obtaining it?"

The Hanging judge shook his head, but at the same time gave a signaling glance to the other man present.

The younger paladin cleared his throat slightly. "We recovered it, Father, but the spell we used . . . it seemed off."

Eklesia almost choked out the last word, as Maxwell's gaze hardened and transfixed him. The cool of the Iscariot's Temple Hall suddenly seemed cold, and the large, arching ceiling suddenly seemed even farther away. He gulped nervously.

"Off? Off how?"

"He means, the wraiths summoned didn't seem to dissipate as the scrolls indicated they would."

"They did not vanish?"

"No, no Father, they did, but I still felt them. As you may know, my . . . specialty is a sixth sense, an ability to track and hunt such," Eklesia paused, trying to find the right word. Abominations is what the summoned spirits were, but . . . "anomalies. The wraiths vanished, but I still felt them, as if they had simply become invisible, yet lingered still."

Maxwell frowned, his brow curling and wrinkling as he gave the matter consideration. In the silence, short as it was, Eklesia was sure all present could hear the jack hammering of his own heart. Crossing Father Maxwell was neither smart nor necessarily safe. Maxwell had been the one to find the original scroll, and had pushed it into use. Oh, how he wished he could be with Lucrecia, tending to the wards and armory!

"Andersong? Did you notice anything?"

The man shrugged. "Brother Eklesia is far more sensitive to such things than I am," he said, turning to look down at his subordinate. "I have no reason to doubt what he claims."

Maxwell nodded again. "It is likely nothing, regardless. It was a spell of some power. It would take awhile for a physical manifestation of that nature to fade away. Do not concern yourself with it. Good job, though, both of you."

Maxwell turned, and began to make his way out of the chapel, his footfalls echoing in the stillness, vanishing out into the darkness beyond the candlelight.

"But sir, what if . . .what if it doesn't?"

The footsteps halted. A voice echoed back from the darkness. "Those summoned were avatars of Sigsmund, his favored Champions, Lord Mathius and his legion. Should they linger, which they don't, they will undoubtedly act in a manner befitting such heroes, even without our guidance. And they are in England. Let the Damned deal with them, pet vampires and all."

VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV

Integra refused to wince, even slightly, as she made the small incision, the razor drawing blood from her right thumb, and then pressing the digit in sequence against the six sigils etched into the solid, cold iron door. She braced herself, finding firm footing on the stone floor.

The backlash of energies as the seal broke threw her backwards nevertheless, and she would likely have tumbled into the wall amidst the tumultuous windstorm had Walter not caught her and held her steady, his own form bracing against the magical backwash. As abruptly as it began, the deafening crack faded to echoes, then silence.

Taking her assistance from Walter, she moved to her feet, and straightened her outfit. It wouldn't do at all to show even a shadow of weakness at their reacquaintance.

'_Heaven knows he likes to push me to my limits already.'_

It was true enough. The damn vampire had, in his more playful moments prior to his incarceration, taken to playing jokes during the down times. Nothing so as elaborate or undignified as a bucket of water over a door, or green dye in the shampoo, but jokes none the less.

Most of which involved getting troops and visiting dignitaries to lose control of their bodily functions in fright. Sticking his head down through the ceiling and right into the face of the prime minister had nearly cost Hellsing a quarter of their budget that year.

It certainly cost the minister his dignity, and the trousers of a rather expensive suit.

_'At least Ceras hasn't tried to follow in his footsteps. Maybe I can get her to try and talk him down.'_

The Knight pushed open the heavy iron door. The sounds of an old phonograph filling the stone corridor with a melancholy tune as she stepped through the thresh hold, Walter on her heels.

Even knowing Alucard for so long, even trusting him with her life and more, facing the lion in its den still set a slight tremor down her spine, even though she knew, rationally, intelligently, that she had nothing to fear.

"Alucard."

The Iron Maiden's gaze traced over the room past a lighted candelabra and over a shelf overstuffed with leather and cloth bound books to come to rest on a chair in front of a rather rough wooden table. Or more specifically, the slouched, unmoving, red garbed form in the chair.

Slowly the red brimmed hat rotated, a toothy grin being brought to bear.

"My Master. I take it you have need of my services again?" The voice seemed to ooze a relaxed, teasing confidence, as if the speaker was some sort of lazy prophet, who knew this time, this conversation would come, and was as a result singularly unexcited about reliving it in real time.

"We never stopped requiring them, Alucard, though we've been managing well enough without you." Integra replied, voice curt but civil.

The gaunt form rose up, towering over the platinum haired woman, orange shades flashing in the firelight. "Ahh. I have felt stirrings through the Policewoman. She's grown stronger, I imagine." A playful tone, twinkiling with a hint of perhaps . . . pride?

"Major Victoria is doing well."

"Oh ho, Major now, is it?"

"Ms. Victoria is doing quite well, Master Alucard. Her progress has been quite astounding." Walter cut in.

"Is it, Angel?"

Walter smirked slightly at the name. "While not displaying your particular brand of enthusiastic destruction, she is none the less formidable."

Integra cleared her throat, drawing the old partners' attention to her. "Ceras' progress is quite impressive. That is not the issue at the moment. The Iscariot is on the move. We will stop them."

The vampire nodded. "The restrictions are lifted, then?"

"As much as they usually are. Normal invocations of Cromwell are in effect." Integra spoke as she turned to leave, her subordinate and subject falling into step behind her. Crossing the hallway at a quick clip, they rounded the corner to enter into the long hallway to the stairs. Nearly ten feet wide and one hundred and fifty feet long, doors lined its sides periodically.

A single figure stood halfway down the hall. Blue cargo pants, blue fatigue top. Black utility vest, with a hammer strapped to her back. Ceras Victoria fixed the approaching group with her gaze.

For a moment, Integra wondered why she was glaring at them.

'_No, not us,'_ Integra though,_'him'_. Another small shiver ran up her spine, recalling Ceras' earlier words. A discussion. The thought of what that might entail, and what she might be about to witness made her take a small step back.

Alucard took a step forward face splitting into a wide, wide grin.

"Policewoman."

"Master."

Integra looked from one to the other, feeling the tension in the air, or what passed for tension, at any rate. A mix of excitement, anger, and nervousness from one side, and perhaps anticipation and amusement from the other?

"I've heard you've improved."

"Why don't I show you . . . Alucard."

Integra visibly started at the last word to leave her Major's mouth. The phrase prior had been bad enough, but this . . . this was unprecedented. Ceras Victoria had never addressed Alucard by his name, and she had though the fledgling never would. Alucard would certainly never invite a change in address, as she had just hours earlier. But now that Ceras has addressed him as such, the tone carried a less than subtle message with it.

A challenge. A conflict between what were her two most undeniably valuable operatives. And one she had absolutely no idea how to handle or deal with, and only a vague idea as to what it was about. Before she could open her mouth to say whatever she might have said, the issue was decided for her.

Hand coming up in one smooth motion from where it had rested at her side, Ceras Victoria flexed the muscles in her right wrist. A small single shot firearm appeared in her hand as she completed the action, having slid neatly down the spring loaded slid rail that kept it concealed within the baggy sleeve of her fatigue jacket.

Little more than a barrel and triggering mechanism it had no obvious magazine, or even much of a grip. Undoubtedly single shot, it nevertheless packed a far larger punch than what would have been expected for a hold out weapon. A derringer or something similar might have fired a nine millimeter round. The Boomslang, as Bonner had dubbed it, was something far, far more dangerous.

The gun's namesake was a relatively small and unassuming arboreal snake. Though potent in its venom, it is a creature that shows itself rarely, and when it does, typically will not strike unless sorely provoked. Even then its back of the mouth fangs sometimes find it hard to grasp larger targets. But the Boomslang's venom is something thoroughly unpleasant, leading to nausea, confusion, headaches, and eventually death.

The Boomslang weapon, singular, as Bonner assured Ceras it was a completely custom job, was similar to the snake in many ways. Easily hidden, not to be used unless desperate, with a short range and extremely deadly bite. The product of an all night whiskey and soda bender, the American had dreamt up the plan in a drunken haze, then built it the next day. It fired a single custom round of the re-engineer's own design, a shotgun shell sized item packed with metal or silver twists and glass shrapnel.

The recoil would snap a human's wrist. The blast would shred an enemy combatant.

Ceras pulled the trigger, and the battle was joined.

The elder vampire favored his apprentice with a toothy grin as he realized exactly what it was that fastened to her wrist, before dropping below the incoming cloud of shrapnel with inhuman speed.

Pushing off the floor from his kneeling position, the Red Garbed terror lunged forward, his hands reaching for his own weapons as he did so . . .

Reacting with her own incredible reflexes, Ceras had her Sig-Pro unholstered and ready even as Alucard began to duck the round from the Boomslang, and his blind dash only served to line up his head perfectly with the barrel. She double tapped, and the lead rounds tore through his face, shattering his glasses and sending the rims to the floor.

Alucard's body skidded and fell face down onto the asphalt, blood forming a puddle around his head.

"So the policewoman has teeth after all . . . it remains to be seen if she has fangs." Even disembodied, Alucard wasn't one to pass up a quip, his voice still playful, but a tad cautious.

The pooling blood shifted and began to distort, an inky blackness warping its color as multiple red eyes opened in its reflection, gazing amusedly at the policewoman. The body itself burst into shadowstuff, two canine heads lunging out from it at the aggressor.

The first one disintegrated in a hail of gunfire, but the second gripped her arm in a vise like jaw and twisted, snapping her left wrist.

The handgun fell to the ground with a clatter as the shapeless mass of shadow seemed to rise up.

"Good, policewoman, but not quite good . . ."

"My name is Ceras Victoria. Use it!"

Ignoring the pain, Ceras pulled a combat knife from her webbing and hacked the hellhounds head off with a single, brutal stroke, before hurling the silver edged blade towards her erstwhile teacher.

It stopped in midair and reversed, heading back towards her, only to be batted aside as the younger vampire freed Nox Praetor from her back and swung it in a single, smooth motion.

She lunged forward and brought it down in a massive overhand arc dead center of Alucard's shadow form, only to have it be stopped by a white gloved hand as the ancient undead resolidified.

Alucard's other hand shot out as soon as it rematerialized, lancing towards Ceras' stomach. When it hit, it would cause great pain, but miss the heart. It was not intended as a fatal blow.

Ceras had been counting on that. She didn't even try to dodge, and grimaced as the hand tore through one side of her and then out the other. She grinned up at him, fangs bared. She had him.

The elder vampire managed one startled look of disbelief before he realized exactly what the fledgling had intended. Throwing herself against him, she effectively pinned his one arm inside her own body, and the other was still keeping the hammer from descending and landing even a glancing blow upon his being. With no appendages to hinder her attack, she struck.

Fangs sunk deep into flesh as Ceras Victoria became a true No Life King.

Even as she drank, though, she could feel her own lifeblood ebbing as her powers sought to mend the wound in her chest only to find it still occupied by the intruding arm, her left wrist still bleeding profusely from the hellhound's rending bite.

A few seconds after she struck, Ceras released her hold on the elder vampire's throat and let the hammer fall from her hand, though Praetor refused to clatter to the ground. Instead, the weapon daintily hovered, maneuvering some feet over Ceras' blood to come to a gentle rest on the dry stone.

Its master was not nearly so graceful. Taking a shaky step back, Ceras freed her chest from the impaling object with a gasp, and stared into her former master's eyes.

Without the red lenses of his glasses, the former policewoman found crimson irises returning her gaze, and smiled slightly at what she read in them. Pride. Respect.

"Most impressive, Ceras Victoria. Most impressive, indeed." The voice spoke in a tone none present had ever heard before. Oh, it was still playful, Integra was sure that the damn creature would laugh as he strode through the bloody gates of hell itself, but there was something else there. A sense humbled pride, and its inverse, respect.

Ceras nodded weakly in acknowledgement, body swaying unsteadily as she did so. "Thank you, Alucard."

The nod never fully completed as she pitched forward, the wounds inflicted taking their toll on her stamina as the combat high she had been running on left her. She would live, but now that the immediate threat was over, her body demanded rest in no uncertain terms.

Alucard caught her as she fell, and swung her up into a fireman's carry, much as he had done the night of her death when he had bit her.

He turned slightly to face Integra, who still stood there, mouth agape. He didn't bother looking up from the body he cradled.

"I will return shortly. Ceras Victoria will be fine, but she needs rest. Please do not disturb me." The same voice. It brooked no argument.

Before the Knight could respond the red garbed man spun on his heel and disappeared down the darkened corridor towards his own room.

Walter was the first to find his voice.

"Ahh, then. I guess Ms. Victoria will be needing more blood than usual."

Integra's mouth opened and closed twice before she managed a reply.

"Yes. Do that, Walter. And Walter?" she added, her voice still hinting at the disbelief and exasperation she felt.

"Yes, my lady?"

"Bring me the reserve whiskey. The stuff grandfather laid down. All of it."

"Yes, my lady."

"And feel free to help yourself to some, too. Its going to be a long week."

"Of course, Lady Integra."

VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV

Authors Notes:

Well, a couple things to note here. First off, a big thanks to my new beta, Lady Blackmour; helps me to stay on schedule, and acts as a sounding board for some of my less linear plot or technique movements, in addition to the thankless task of grammatical editing.

Second off, thanks to all who reviewed. Sadly, my ego desires these little bits of digital flattery and constructive criticism, and often motivate me to pick up the digital pen for another paragraph or two (curse you, human failings! Curse you!). Special thanks to Drowninginmysleep for her generous review; I've been in similar situations before (sanity is for the weak, or so I've told myself). Shadowkeepre, you can find answers to your question about the familiars on my site, found via my profile. A preview of chapter eleven, featuring the Sergeant Case's recon of the battle site, is also present, though I warn everyone that it contains only original characters, and is just a fight scene.

I apologize for my glacial pace once again; timetables for hobbies don't do so well in my book (still working on my first Warhammer 40k Army; started it 6-7 years ago and now have two more in various states of completion . . .). Anyway, a bit of a question to you folk out there: It seems that the initial chapter, Substance, has thrown people for a loop in that it actually takes place at the END of this particular chronicle (It was originally a one shot, but encouragement brought it to this). Thinking of moving it to the end, but then I'd be kinda weird just having it sitting their, with a huge chunk of story missing. Any thoughts on the matter? Thinking I might just remove it entirely and repost it at the end as the epilogue . . .

And the new Hellsing OVAs are being produced, think the first one has already aired in Japan. Appears they will actually follow the Manga, which I suppose is a fairly reasonable thing. Personally, I don't much care for Pip, or Ceras' crazy power up, but something is better than nothing. This is now and forever based on the original anime canon.

Thanks much, T35


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